


While You Live, Your Troubles Are Many

by Barbara69



Series: To Conquer Death [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Brotherhood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt Athos, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Terrorism, Reborn Musketeers, Terrorists, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:30:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 63,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10571352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbara69/pseuds/Barbara69
Summary: Sequel toTo Conquer Death, You Only Have To Die.This takes place about two weeks after the ending ofTo Conquer Death(i.e.: about four months after the showdown at the Louvre, six weeks after Henri spoke his first word and two weeks after Milady re-entered France). If you haven't readTo Conquer Death, I strongly suggest doing so before reading this sequel. Many things and actions from this story refer to what happened in the first part, and why it happened.Later, much later, Athos would recall this moment with great clarity; the point in time that marked the switch from lightsome bliss to impalpable anxiety, the first stirrings of what would turn out to be a whirlwind carrying everyone in its vicinity with it, right to the vaults of hell.





	1. Bad News

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for the long wait!! I have no apology other than the fact that real life sometimes has other ideas and can be an uncooperative diva. But here I am! Finally! I can't wait to post this now. Apologies again for the long wait and I hope you enjoy it....
> 
> Many thanks to fredbasset for doing the beta for this story again! Thanks for all the explanations and comments and for helping me with the tricky use of English grammar and vocabulary which is not always obvious to a non-native speaker like me.
> 
> Many thanks to gecko10 who once again read the story as a WIP and pointed out the holes in the plot I had missed; she brainstormed with me when I had written myself into a corner, listened to my wailing, provided most needed feedback and -most of all- dotes on our favourite Musketeer as much as I do. She's the best like-minded friend when it comes to Aramis!
> 
> And finally, my heartfelt thanks to M_LadyinWaiting for making this possible at all; I would neither write nor post fan fiction if it were not for her. 
> 
> All remaining errors, typos and holes in the plot are solely my responsibility. The Musketeers are property of Alexandre Dumas and BBC One. I only borrowed the characters and the concept of the show for this work of fan fiction.

When the phone started ringing, Athos was busy with the report on the _Montérégie_ case Porthos had finished the day before. Without looking away from the papers, he grabbed the receiver and uttered an absent-minded greeting.

Later, much later, he would recall this moment with great clarity; the point in time that marked the switch from lightsome bliss to impalpable anxiety, the first stirrings of what would turn out to be a whirlwind carrying everyone in its vicinity with it, right to the vaults of hell. As yet, when he reached for the phone, he was unaware of the fact that this conversation would line up with the few moments of great importance and far-reaching consequences that had been etched on Athos' memory forever, small moments in time he would never forget for the rest of his life. Moments he could recall even 370 years later in another life, so great had been its importance, so momentous the incident.

“Allô?”

“Athos?”

“Captain, what can I do for you?”

“Tell me if you're all in the office at the moment. I need to speak to you.”

“What is it?”

“I'd really rather not talk about it on the phone. Besides, it concerns all of you, so I'd like to come by and....” Tréville trailed off for a moment, “break the news personally. Unpleasant news. Plural.”

Athos leaned sideways and glanced over to d'Artagnan's office through the open door. “D'Artagnan is here, Porthos and Aramis are out and about, but they should be back within the hour.”

“I'll be at your office in about half an hour, can you try to reach them and ask them to hurry?”

“For heaven's sake, don't keep me in suspense, what is it? You sound way too serious for my liking.”

Tréville sighed. “See you soon.” He ended the call.

Athos stared at the receiver in his hand for a full minute, trying to understand what had just happened, and it had nothing to do with the fact that Tréville had just hung up on him. He tried, unsuccessfully, to suppress the dreadful feeling stirring in his stomach and rang Porthos' mobile. After ordering both his companions back to the office immediately, Athos slowly returned the receiver to its cradle, lost in thought. Everything could have been perfect; or at least as perfect as Athos could wish for a life he had not hoped to ever be blessed with. But, he mused, probably it would be asking too much of fate to grant any of them more than a handful of months of blissful happiness.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

A month ago, Aramis had finally moved in with Anne for good and d’Artagnan had gladly taken the offer to lease Aramis’ apartment. Since then and as far as Athos was informed, Constance had spent more nights at d’Artagnan’s place than in the guest room her aunt provided for her, but then none of the Inseparables had expected anything else. Athos had only reluctantly let d’Artagnan go; he had to admit he had got used to having the young man around, and now his apartment felt strangely void of life. When Athos had used to be more than content with the solitude his apartment always held for him before, now he turned on the TV more often than not to bridge the silence when he came back from the office late in the evening. 

On one of those nights, when he had bade his friends good night after a late diner at _Franck's_ , almost dreading returning to his Gascon-free rooms, he had stumbled over somebody crawling around in the dark hallway. Literally. A shriek from the floor had made him jump and curse in an un- _comtely_ way and he had tried to identify what or whom he had stepped on while groping for the light switch. The shadow on the floor had turned out to be a young woman who had just moved in a few days ago. She had lost her contact lens and while searching for it on the floor the light had switched off and only a moment later Athos had planted his boot on her backside. In the dim hallway’s light, he had recognized her immediately, even before she had offered him her hand and introduced herself as his new neighbour, Ninon Larroque. Since then, his apartment was not as deserted any more; now and then Ninon materialized in the doorframe with a bottle of wine and a bundle of problems on her mind and asked if Athos would mind sharing wine and misery with her. He didn't mind, not in the slightest. After all, he was still a master of the art of drowning problems and unwanted thoughts in alcohol, albeit not as skilfully as he had in the old days. In this new life, even misery didn't find him as often as it had done before. In fact, nowadays he drank rarely, and almost only in company and mostly for pleasure. Ninon, Athos found out, knew nothing of her old life, had a clingy and annoying ex-boyfriend who called at least twice a week, and permanent trouble with her colleagues at school. He’d liked her instantly.

Everything could have been blissfully perfect: d’Artagnan and Constance happy and in love like the epitome of two lovebirds, Aramis and Anne finally able to share a life together, completed by the son Aramis had never been able to acknowledge in his old life. Porthos had recently started to vanish early from the office and Athos had wondered if the big man had again picked up his liking for gambling until Aramis had shared his suspicion their friend was dating an as yet anonymous woman. Aramis had promised to wheedle a name or at least a short description of the mysterious woman out of Porthos, but had provided neither so far. Athos had ruminated on the mathematical probability that the woman’s name was either Alice or Elodie, but the call from Tréville had made those musings redundant for now.

Yes, it could have been perfect. But calls like this one bore witness to the many troubles one faced when living the life of a Musketeer. After all, that's what they still were, no matter the century, and nothing had ever gone smoothly and uneventfully in their lives. It was as established a reality as was the fact that the sun rose every day.

Athos sighed and picked up the receiver to call a client and postpone his next meeting. The chances were high that whatever Tréville had to tell them would be likely to take up some time.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

When Tréville entered the room, four pairs of expectant eyes immediately fixed on him. The Musketeers had gathered in the meeting room and were sitting around the big table. Coffee mugs in varying states of full to empty crowded the table, along with notepads, mobiles and a half-eaten croissant Porthos had brought back from their off-site meeting. One look at their captain’s face was enough for all of them to know he was about to deliver bad news. 

“Bonjour, Messieurs,” Tréville greeted and closed the door. After quickly scanning the room he went over to the window, looking out as he began to speak. “I asked Athos to summon you all because it concerns all of you. It saves me the trouble of repeating myself.” He harrumphed and finally turned around to face the men. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he muttered, settling his eyes on Aramis. “Monsieur Autriche was found.” He paused for a heart-beat or two, before he added, “Alive.”

“What?” Aramis stared at the captain disbelievingly. “But it’s been half a year, how can he still live? Rochefort killed him!” The shocked expression on the marksman’s face shifted. “Where?” he rasped, “How?”

Tréville raked a hand through his short hair. “The _gendarmerie_ in Courville-sur-Eure located and rescued him while following a trail on another case. In the end, some insignificant complaint about domestic violence or nighttime disturbance finally set them on the right track, and they were able to free him. He had been captured in a remote farmhouse near Friaize, a village of 200 souls, southwest of Courville. He’s in a fairly good condition, though he suffers from malnourishment and a severe infection apparently caused by the shackles he was bound with and the poor hygiene conditions. He’s in hospital right now.”

Athos knew their captain well enough to know there was more behind the news of Anne’s husband having been retrieved alive. He waited for Tréville to go on with his report and didn’t have to wait long.

Before Aramis had recovered from his shock and could ask more, Tréville continued. “Unfortunately, Monsieur Autriche is convinced his wife is responsible for his abduction. I’ve not spoken to him personally, but from what _Capitaine_ Morel told me, he accuses his wife of having had him abducted and captured. He claims his wife wanted to murder him and he’s only alive because of the goodwill of his guards, who apparently refused to kill him. He seems full of hatred for her,” Tréville concluded.

This were indeed bad news, Athos thought, watching Aramis' face turn into a stony mask.

“It's ridiculous, of course,” Tréville carried on hurriedly, directly addressing Aramis now. “And his accusations won't hold, but I hate to say we still haven't been able to connect Rochefort to Monsieur Autriche's abduction. And the _gendarmerie_ in Courville-sur-Eure are bound in law to look into his accusations.”

Aramis slowly raised his eyes to look at the former Minister of War. “What do you mean? We all know that Anne has nothing to do with it, it was Rochefort. He confessed to me. Anne wanted to divorce him, what would she have gained by abducting and killing him?” Aramis had spoken in a flat and toneless voice, had hardly raised his voice at all, yet the words echoed deafeningly through the quiet room.

Porthos, seated two chairs away from his friend, leaned over, putting a calming hand on the other's shoulder. “Aramis, everyone knows this, but the police need evidence to prove it. Your statement obviously isn't sufficient. The more so, if Autriche argues the converse.”

“I'm afraid your testimony of what Rochefort confessed to you won't be enough to convince either Autriche or the state attorney. It seems Autriche also accuses his wife of adultery,” Tréville mumbled, “ _Capitaine_ Morel mentioned it. It puts you on the list of kidnapper suspects, too.”

Athos’ face dropped, unable to keep his facial features calm and unaffected. “Your're kidding,” he remarked, uttering the first thing that crossed his mind. “That's downright ridiculous.” That said, he remembered a quote he had picked up somewhere and kept in mind because it had proven true so many times, stating that ridiculous rhymed with dangerous and the first often entailed the latter. Something that seemed so obvious and ridiculous from the beginning often ended in a highly dangerous situation. At least for them. They had had lots of such situations during their time as Musketeers.

“This was Rochefort's plan all along, right? His counter-insurance. He’d kept Autriche alive, fed him with false accusations, made him believe his wife was behind all this. I bet he described Aramis and what he and Anne had planned in great detail. Even if Monsieur Autriche knew of the unlikelihood that his wife would ever do something like this, after months of listening to vile lies and hours and hours of contemplation, everyone can be convinced to believe whatever you wish them to believe.” D'Artagnan put to the point what was whirling through every man's mind, once more proving the sharp-wittedness few considered the young Gascon capable of.

“Fact is, Monsieur Autriche apparently never heard of a man named Rochefort. It seems he also never met him, the men and one woman he described who were responsible for his abduction and fed him once a day in the old farmhouse don't match Rochefort's description. Unless Rochefort was disguised, which I don't believe, he was never anywhere near Autriche. Or at least never in his line of vision. However,” Tréville added with a sigh, looking even more haunted than before by what he was about to say, “there's another name that popped up in the investigations. Monsieur Autriche mentioned a name he overheard once or twice.” Tréville paused, eyeing the men around him before he continued, “Grimaud.”

“ _What?_ ” Porthos gasped. “This can't be true. Grimaud?”

“Incidentally, I stumbled over this name yesterday evening in our investigations regarding the criminal network Rochefort operated within. Lieutenant Martinez from the 6th _arrondissement_ is in charge of the Autriche abduction case and he called me this morning with the report that the _gendarmerie_ in Courville-sur-Eure had found Autriche. He knew I was working on the case from our side as well after the Rochefort incident, trying to make the connections. I asked him to fax the reports to me as soon as he got them from Morel, especially Autriche's statement. When I read the report and found the name Grimaud appearing there, too, I instantly contacted Morel in Courville-sur-Eure. I told him our department is investigating in matters related to Grimaud and Monsieur Autriche and he briefed me on everything they had so far.”

“Did they know each other back then?” D'Artagnan asked. “Rochefort died years before Grimaud showed up in Paris. Is there any known connection between these two?”

Tréville shook his head. “I've no idea. Back then it was unimportant, I never thought about it. Now, I don't know, maybe they met somewhere through the dubious company both kept. Though it might just be a coincidence, this Grimaud could have nothing to do with our old friend Lucien Grimaud. But I doubt it, the way things are going for us at the moment.”

“Can we speak with Monsieur Autriche? How long will he be in hospital, respectively when will he return to Paris? We need to clear up those accusations as soon as possible.”

Tréville eyed Athos. “You know I can't let you interview him, apart from the fact that it is not even my case now. It's a police matter, and I don't think it would be wise if any of you approach him. Not in the current situation and with the accusations he brings forth. However, no one can stop his wife if she wants to see him. Since Autriche had no papers on him I would in fact suggest she officially confirms his identity, just to be on the safe side. Even if Autriche doesn't like it.” Tréville turned and addressed Aramis, “I don't deem it wise if you accompany her. After all, he accuses you of being the reason why Anne supposedly wanted him out of her way as well as the cause of her adultery.”

“One of us could go with her,” Porthos interrupted immediately, feeling the anger and tension radiating from Aramis.

“We'll see,” the captain mumbled. “I'll know by the end of the day when he'll be transferred to Paris. I asked Lieutenant Martinez to keep me informed on everything and made a formal request with the _Contrôleur général's_ office to get assigned to the investigations, or at least involved.”

An awkward silence settled over the room, each man mulling over what their captain had disclosed. What it meant for them, what their next steps would be. How it was possible Rochefort had found a way to haunt them even after his death, to deal further blows especially to Aramis.

Athos eyes drifted to Aramis, watching him closely. Aramis had mainly been Rochefort's focus, and he was the one who would suffer most from whatever plan it was Rochefort had set to work. With a whiff of guilt, Athos remembered he had recently lacked to ask about the issue with the marksman's blood results. Porthos had mentioned not too long ago there still was something amiss with the latest blood tests. He made a mental note to ask Aramis later about it.

Porthos also studied his friend beside him. He could see how Aramis' world fell apart before his inner eye. The marksman stared at the table in front of him with unseeing eyes, and Porthos felt a stab of pain seeing their brother suffer. It wasn't fair that even in death Rochefort was able to strike a killing blow to them, especially to Aramis, much like the Cardinal had done after passing away. 

Tréville cleared his throat. “There's more.” For a moment, he winced and had a flashback to another time and place, when Athos had uttered exactly the same words, breaking the news of Aramis' treason and fatherhood to their captain and his fellow brothers, and adding, as if the first two revelations hadn't been bad enough, a third, final blow to Tréville's long list of worries. _There's more...._ Well, Tréville knew his words would as much be a blow to the guts as Athos' words had been all those years back. 

The looks he received to this statement all bore the same expression, except for Aramis, whose face was devoid of any emotion. The men dreaded what more he could possibly tell them to top the last half hour's revelations.

“A routine check of this month's passenger lists produced another familiar name. It was purely coincidence that the lists landed on my desk and I skipped over them at all. However, beside a couple of wanted persons, one name particularly caught my eye.” As if to reassure himself that he would get the name right, he grabbed a sheet of paper from the stack he had put down on the table earlier, swiftly scanning its content. “One Anne Claire de Winter entered France via immigration at _Charles de Gaulle_ on November 13th.” He looked up from the paper, catching Athos' gaze. “I'm sure her British passport is faked, though the immigration officer found nothing wrong with it.” He slid a paper with a color print out over the table towards Athos.

It was slightly grainy and taken from an angle indicating it was from a surveillance camera at the airport's immigration department. The woman on the photo had her face turned away from the camera, looking up to the ceiling on the other side of the camera's location, so her face was only partly visible.

“Is this your ex-wife, Anne de Breuil?” asked the captain.

Athos didn't have to take a closer look to recognize her. Nevertheless, he stared at the picture as if he needed to let it burn into his mind. Using a passport with the name of Anne de Winter could only mean one thing.

His look, when Athos brought up his head again, told Tréville everything he needed to know. “The immigration officer remembered she put emphasis on being addressed as Milady, rather than Madame. For me, this could only mean one thing. The question now is why she would use a false passport to re-enter France instead of returning with her French passport as French citizen. Do you know if she has married in the meantime? Have you any knowledge of what she might want in Paris, and since when has she regained her memory?”

Athos shook his head slowly, trying to calm somersaulting thoughts.

Tréville let up on Athos and turned to Porthos. “Didn't you say Richelieu was in London, too? We need to check if we find connections between these two. I certainly could live without having the two of them work together again. Milady de Winter entering the country with a false passport is bad enough, dealing with her never does bode well.”

“Did she have connections to Rochefort? Is she here to finish what he wasn't able to do?” d'Artagnan asked of no one in particular, peering at Aramis with a queasy feeling. “What if Rochefort and Milady worked together?”

Porthos and d'Artagnan shared a look of concern. From one moment to the other, an avalanche of problems and threats had been set off, intending to bury and crush them. When they had thought they had rid themselves of the danger Rochefort had exposed, the problems had increased threefold. Aramis' life started falling apart before his eyes, the re-appearance of Anne's husband accompanied by his accusations most likely only the tip of the iceberg in the matter. They dreaded to think about what it might mean for the divorce proceedings and child custody. How Athos felt about the re-appearance of Milady in his now-time life they could only guess, but he looked more than troubled. That they all could have done well without Grimaud arriving on the scene in addition to all this went without saying.

Tréville answered with a sigh. “That's something we need to find out as well. We have a host of work to do. As soon as I have more information from _Capitaine_ Morel and the green light from on high that my department can work on the case, we need to concentrate on Grimaud and his connection to Rochefort. See how much of a threat he is to us or if he is just a run-of-the-mill criminal who happened to work with Rochefort and has nothing to do with the Lucien Grimaud we knew. The other thing we have to investigate is Milady. Does she work for Richelieu respectively, has Richelieu regained his memories at all? If that is not the fact, we can drop this trace right from the start. What is her agenda, does she have connections to Rochefort and what is she up to, secretly re-entering the country?” Tréville ticked off the points on his list with his fingers. With a sideways glance to Aramis, he continued, “Third and most importantly, we need to produce and present ironclad proof that Rochefort was behind Autriche's abduction. We know it was him, but we haven't found any clear proof in black and white yet. We cannot have Autriche running around accusing the Queen, or Aramis, of having had a hand in it.”

Aramis, whose spirits had finally revived, rose and strolled over to the window facing rue Dante. There he turned, facing the others, and started to speak.

“I'm not sure how wise it is if you're investigating this case,” Tréville continued before Aramis could say a word, addressing the younger man. “Obviously, you're number one on Autriche's list of most hated human beings at the moment.”

“Anne came to us after her husband vanished and after the police started investigating, we didn't even know each other before,” Aramis countered angrily, slowly starting to walk up and down alongside the conference table. “How dare he utter such false accusations! He was the one who cheated on her!” Aramis looked at the others. “I was with Anne again not before I had been captured by Rochefort. That was _weeks_ after her husband's abduction!” There was a whiff of pleading to Aramis' voice, and it brought a stab of pity to his brothers' hearts hearing it. “There must be a way to prove this. She reported him missing before I even knew of her existence. It's all in the police files.”

“Reporting him missing is no proof you two didn't know each other before, or plotted together against Monsieur Autriche. I fear, it's not that easy,” Tréville stated calmly. “But we'll sort this out. I just want you to be prepared for a rough time coming.” Tréville regarded Aramis for a moment and could see how despair carved its first lines of worry into the marksman's face. It wouldn't be easy for Aramis and Anne to weather the coming time, especially since there was still the child Monsieur Autriche had together with his wife and whom he would most likely lay claim to now with regard to child custody.

“It's unfortunate my department was not involved in the investigations right from the start,” Tréville spoke on. “Nevertheless I have every intention of seeing this case solved until year end.” That would roughly give him four week’s time to keep this promise, certainly not an easy venture, but he was determined to see it through.

Porthos grabbed Aramis' sleeve before the marksman could yet start another circuit of the room. “Sit down,” he ordered, pulling his friend to the chair beside him. “This is ridiculous and you know it. In a few days, this case is solved, believe me.” Porthos' reassurance was most welcome, though not as convincing as the big man might hope. “Besides, he had already signed the divorce papers, right? No police officer in the world would ever believe a wife would abduct her husband a few hours before the court hearing, especially since she'd been the one filing for the divorce. They might as well charge him with false abduction and perjury just to avoid the court hearing.” Porthos patted the marksman's shoulders. “We've faced worse, haven't we?”

Aramis offered his friend a weak smile. He was grateful for Porthos' support and efforts to cheer him up, but the words held hardly any consolation.

Finally, Tréville pulled out a chair, too, and sat next to Athos. He startled the younger man out of his thoughts. “Time to assign tasks. Would you look into the appearance of....,” the _commissaire_ fished for the right word for a moment, eventually settling with “Milady? You know her best and might get an inkling of what she’s up to.”

Athos huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Do you think she'll contact me and disclose her plans?” Athos glanced at his former captain for a moment. With a sigh, he nodded. “Very well, I'll look into it. Let me see what you have.”

Tréville slid a bunch of papers over to Athos. “This is everything my men were able to gather so far. Porthos,” he addressed the big man, “maybe you really can accompany--” again the slightest of hesitations to switch through the possible forms of address, “Anne to the hospital. Keep yourself to the sidelines, try to get a vibe for Monsieur Autriche, see what's behind his accusations, if it's only wounded vanity or if there's more.”

Porthos nodded.

Tréville turned to their youngest. “D'Artagnan, I know you've probably done nothing else for the last few months but research, but can you screen the names the _gendarmerie_ in Courville-sur-Eure provided me with? I'm sure you have access to enough appropriate sources, all of which I don't want to hear anything about.” He handed the young man some papers. “Also, check everything you've already checked, every source, every bit of information, about connections between Grimaud and Rochefort. We need something we can pin on either Grimaud or any of Rochefort’s other helpers.”

D'Artagnan nodded. “I've a couple of new portals I've access to and can--”

He was interrupted by Tréville raising his hand and cutting him short. “I don't want to know anything about it. I'm sure most of the things you do are either illegal or within a legally grey area, so just.... look into it.”

The Gascon grinned and animatedly nodded his head again. “I'll also try to access the CCTV in and around Courville-sur-Eure. Maybe I'll find something. Or have you already checked it?”

Tréville shook his head. “I don't know if the _gendarmerie_ there has thought about it, but as long as I'm not formally assigned to the case I can hardly request the footage. So.....” He gestured to d'Artagnan to do whatever the young man thought wise, as long as he didn't inform the 5th _arrondisement's commissaire principal_ about it in minute detail. The less Tréville knew about LaFère Security's modus operandi the better.

Tréville finally turned to Aramis. “Would you look into Grimaud? Connections, friends, family, upbringing, whatever you can find. I'll give you the papers we have from the Spanish. At least for a short period of time, Rochefort and Grimaud were inmates at the same prison. We don't know yet if they ever had contact there, it's one of the biggest prisons in Spain with well over a thousand inmates. Rochefort served a long prison term while Grimaud was there only for a couple of weeks.” Tréville looked up from his papers. “The jail administration denies categorically they could ever have had contact.”

Aramis slowly nodded, reaching over to take the bundle of papers Tréville shoved his way. “He's a French citizen?”

“Yes. All basic data is in here. See what connections you can uncover. Dig into his past. If we can't find anything currently tying him to Rochefort, there must be something in the past.”

Aramis' mobile on the desk started vibrating. He grabbed it and frowned when he saw the caller's name. “Anne,” he muttered and took the call. After a moment listening, his expression changed and he replied, “I know, Tréville is currently here, he told us.” Aramis looked up at Tréville, listening to Anne again. “What? Why--? What do they say?”

From the one-sided conversation, the others could make out that Anne had apparently been informed about her husband's re-appearance, but they had no idea why Aramis suddenly looked alarmed and angry.

“They can't do this. Wait for me, I'll be with you right away. – No. Do they have a warrant? – You don't have to go with them.” Aramis had risen while talking, staring incredulously at their captain. “Wait a minute.” He lowered the mobile. “Two officers showed up at home. They informed her that her husband had been located alive and requested her to come with them to the police station for interrogation. Do they have the right?”

Tréville's face morphed into an irate storm cloud. “I'd expressly asked them to wait until I get back to Lieutenant Martinz later. I wanted to give you the chance to tell her,” he added, more gently. Then, determinedly, “Give me the phone, I'll speak to them.” He waited for Aramis to hand over the mobile.

Aramis returned the mobile to his ear. “Anne, Tréville will speak to them. I'll pass you on.” He handed it to Tréville.

“Bonjour, can you pass on the phone to one of the officers, please,” Tréville asked, rising from his seat and strolling over to one of the windows. “This is _commissaire principal_ Peyrer from the 5th _arrondissement's_ commissariat, what is your name and rank?”

The Musketeers watched Tréville listen to the officer's reply. Then a thunderstorm broke loose. They watched and listened to their former captain giving the man on the other end a dressing-down that lacked nothing of the fury and vehemence the Musketeers had to endure frequently in the 17th century.

When he was finished, Tréville ended with the words, “You'll wait outside the house until I'm there and not speak with Madame Autriche in the meantime. Now pass me on again to Madame Autriche.” After the phone had been passed on, he once more spoke with Anne. “I'll be there as fast as I can, do not speak to them. I'll accompany you to the police station, but I think it might be wise to ask your lawyer to meet you there. It's your right and just a precaution, but better be safe than sorry. See you soon.” He handed the phone back to Aramis, who ended the call after another short exchange of words with Anne.

“Are they treating her as suspect?” Athos asked.

Tréville hesitated for the slightest of moments before answering. “No. Such questioning is regular procedure.”

The tiny pause before his answer told Athos everything he needed to know; in the eyes of the police Anne had moved from not involved to suspect.

“I'll come with you,” Aramis said.

“No, I don't think that's a good idea,” Tréville countered. “We have nothing to fear and this will soon be over, but I don't want to offer Autriche and his lawyers even the tiniest chance of using anything against us. I'll handle it.”

A knock on the door stalled any further conversation. Constance slipped in without waiting for an answer, pulling the door shut behind her. “Two police officers are here, asking for Aramis. They are here to escort him to police headquarters for interrogation.”

Aramis turned and stared disbelievingly at Porthos as if his friend could tell him what was going on, or would at least go outside and make them go away.

Porthos' mien changed from surprised to murderous, the mouth contracting to a thin line. He shared a similar thought about making the policemen go away, but his involved brute force as well.

Athos pushed back his chair violently and rose, looking from Aramis to Tréville. “What does this mean? Captain?”

All eyes turned to Tréville for an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bent history/changed past life: The Musketeers' past life runs parallel to the show plot until approx. series 3 episode 8, then this story's history differs from the show's history.
> 
> In this 'verse, the Musketeers returned to the front together with Tréville before the king died and Lorraine's troops laid siege to Paris. The Inseparables died in the war-deciding battle of Rocroi in 1643, only a few days after Louis XIII had died and the Dauphin had ascended the throne. Let's assume there was no committed relationship between Athos and Sylvie at that time and Elodie – sadly – arrived in Paris virtually the moment the Inseparables were about to leave for the front (Porthos and Elodie may have exchanged a few letters, though....). Let's further assume that before they returned to the front, Athos was able to finish off Grimaud (let's say in ep. 8) in exactly the same way he did in ep. 10. Needless to say, Milady returned to Paris and met Athos before the Musketeers left for the front and was furthermore able to go into service first for Tréville and later for Queen Anne.


	2. Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two hours later, Porthos stormed into the office, and slammed the door loud enough that everyone in the office knew he was back. He swore like a trooper and only just managed to swallow the rudest curses when he passed Charlène and Constance, who looked at him with wide eyes. “That son of a –. How I would've loved to smash his face in!”

Instead of answering, Tréville simply beckoned to Aramis to follow him. “Come along.”

After darting a last glance at Porthos, Aramis trailed behind Tréville and left the room.

The way the two men walked to meet the police officers very much reminded Athos of another time, when Aramis had been led off to face charges of high treason, a time when they had feared they would lose him, had thought they might all meet their end on the gallows. Though Aramis walked out of the room with as much pride, death-defying courage and determination as he had back then, it was disturbing to see their friend in a similar situation now, the outcome as uncertain as it had been in their former life, Rochefort once more being the perpetrator. Only to someone who knew the marksman as well as his brothers did was it clear that hidden behind the mask of normality was the merest hint of uncertainty.

Through the open door, the remaining Musketeers could hear their former captain speaking with the officers, and Tréville's voice gained volume with every word he spoke. Finally, Aramis cut off the discussion by declaring he would go with the officers to end this ridiculous affair.

After they had left – Aramis with the two police officers and Tréville to meet Anne – Athos waved to d'Artagnan and Porthos to sit down again. He wanted to have a word with both before they started the tasks Tréville had assigned. Before he could begin, Constance reappeared in the doorway.

“What's going on? Why did they take Aramis with them?”

“It's a long story and has to do with events this summer, shortly before you joined,” Athos said. “In short, Monsieur Autriche, Anne's estranged and missing husband, was found alive, and he accuses his wife and, to an extent, Aramis of being responsible for his abduction. Moreover, of having plotted to have him killed. It's ridiculous but sadly the police obviously need to follow every hint and accusation and therefore have asked Aramis to answer some questions. D'Artagnan can fill you in later, but first we have to discuss a few things.” It was Athos' way of bringing the conversation to an end, and he hoped Constance would get the message. This whole matter was too complex to explain in short, and moreover to someone who wasn't aware of the background and the context. 

“Oh, that's not good at all.” Constance obviously got the broad hint and left to let the men work.

They talked through the current assignments everyone was on and how they could shift the workload, so that they could start with what Tréville had suggested they should look into immediately. After about ten minutes they were finished and everyone went to their office to start with research.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The first thing Athos did was call a friend in London. He was lucky and the call was answered on the third ring. 

“Bonjour, John, this is Olivier. How are you?”

“I'm fine, thanks. Nice to hear from you. What do you want?”

Athos was slightly taken aback. “Why do you think I want something?” He heard his friend chuckling and realised he was too predictable to those who knew him well; he was not one for small talk.

“I can't remember you ever calling me without a hidden agenda. So, as nice as it is to hear your voice, what do you need?”

Athos sighed. “I really wanted to see how you're doing, but yes, there's information I need and which you might be able to provide.”

“Fire away!”

“I'd like to know something about Anne. You're still working with her, right?”

“No, she quit. Didn't you know?”

The reply made Athos frown. “No, I didn't,” he answered in surprise. “When?”

“About a month ago. It came out of the blue. She came in one morning and told us she was leaving her job to go on a long journey, some finding herself or some inner peace thingy or something. She was entitled to enough unused holiday and overtime that she simply packed her things, handed over all her clients and jobs and left the office by end of day.”

“And you believed that? Did she give you any rational explanation? Have you seen her since?”

“No. I mean, you can imagine how shocked I was! I only know her as a kind of workaholic, and she is the last person I can think of to be prone to anything esoteric, and then, from one moment to the next, she quits. I'm not even sure if she's still in England. I tried to call her a few times but only got her voicemail. For all I know, she could be on the far side of the world right now.”

“Ah, I don't think so. I have the feeling she's here in France, and that's kind of the reason why I called. Do you know if anything unusual happened? Did she receive a threat or started to act strangely?” Athos cringed inwardly, he could visualise his friend's reaction, how the other raised his brow in a surprised way.

“What do you mean? Yes, indeed, she started to act strangely, she quit, right? Isn't that strange enough for you?” There was a short pause, then, “Is she in danger or something?”

His friend was right, it was very strange. Anne had loved her job ever since she had accepted the offer from one of the biggest artist management agencies in London. It had opened doors for her to the upper class. If she had given that all up and returned to France, something serious must have happened. 

Before Athos could reply, his friend continued. “She really behaved differently to usual,” John drawled, pausing slightly. “It was nothing big, but.... A few weeks before she left, something must have happened, because she was off work for two or three days. She didn't show up one morning and called later, saying she had had some kind of accident or something and was at the hospital. She only talked to the secretary, I didn't speak to her myself, so I don't know much about it. I was assigned to a big opening event and was up to my ears in work at the time.”

Athos could hear by the tone of the voice how his friend was trying to recall what had happened a few weeks earlier while talking.

“She returned three days later without talking about what had happened and everyone who knows her knew better than to ask. But ever since then I sometimes caught her with her mind elsewhere, absentminded, unfocused on her tasks. Not often and not notably, but unusual for her. I had the impression she had some things to mull over, personal stuff to sort out. But I never asked and she never approached me. It was really no big issue, nothing one would start worrying about.”

“So, this was a few weeks before she left her job?”

“Yes, three, maybe four. Something like that.”

“And she had had some kind of accident and had to stay in hospital?”

“I really can't remember it properly and she only spoke with one of the secretaries. I never asked her about it but yes, I think she called from a hospital. When she was back she had no visible injuries, no broken bones or abrasions or anything physical, if you're thinking something along those lines. So I don't think she’d had an accident or a major surgery. Maybe it was just a medical check-up, something of the kind.”

Athos doubted it had been something as trivial as a check-up. He didn't know when and how Anne had died in her former life, but somehow he couldn't imagine her dying of old age. If this occurrence had been the point she had regained her memory, it was more likely it had been either an accident or an attack on her life.

“Okay. That's at least something. I'm sure if she is back in France, she'll contact me sooner or later.” It wasn't even a lie, though her idea of contacting Athos certainly differed a lot to John's conception. “I have one other question. Do you know if she ever had contact with an actor called Peter Capaldi? Maybe he's under contract to your agency, or to another one you're working with? Do you recall anything like that?”

“Capaldi? Doctor Who? Yes, I think they met at least a couple of times. We were involved in the promotion for the new series. I'm pretty sure she worked on it, even if it wasn’t our team who did the initial handling.”

_That explains a lot_ , Athos thought. He said, “Would you mind if I come back to you on this in a few days? I might need more information. We are currently working on a difficult case here and there are some trails I would like to follow regarding London.”

“Sure, call whenever you need anything. If you want, I can ask around to see if anyone has still contact with Anne or knows anything else.”

“Just if you pick up gossip, don't go around asking people. I don’t want to have this reflect badly on her, she hasn’t done anything wrong. At least not until now,” he muttered to himself.

They talked a little longer about John's family and Athos' work and the old times in the army and hung up with the promise of hearing from each other soon.

Athos sat at his desk for a while, brooding over what he had just heard. Then he heaved himself up and purposefully strode over to d'Artagnan's office where he knocked and entered without waiting for a reply. He closed the door behind him. As long as Constance knew nothing of her past, it was best to keep some things from her.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

D'Artagnan barely looked up from his computer screens to acknowledge Athos’ presence. He had started with trying to get CCTV data immediately after he had parted with Athos and Porthos an hour before. The footage from Courville-sur-Eure was easy to get, he had logged into the CCTV system there and even managed to download stored data from the local authority. The access security was a joke. Unfortunately, it seemed the data was only stored for a month, at least on the server he had been able to log into. Currently the files were downloading and d'Artagnan was eager to start with sifting through the footage. 

“Have you found out something useful?” he asked.

“Yes, and I need your help to follow this lead and get more information,” Athos replied.

“Well, that's nothing new,” d'Artagnan answered flippantly. He looked up when the silence following his reply stretched for too long. “Sorry,” he said sheepishly. “What is it?”

“I've talked to my friend John in London, the one who’s working with my ex-wife. Was working, to be correct. She left her job a month ago, which is pretty unusual for her, doing something like that without good reason. I believe something happened a few weeks prior to that, maybe in connection with an accident and a stay at the hospital. Is there any chance you can get hold of patient data from English hospitals? It would have been roughly two months ago.”

D'Artagnan looked at Athos disbelievingly, scratching his head. “Are you serious?”

Athos' hopeful mien dropped. “Well, I mean, you can obviously hack police files and local community data servers, I thought maybe--” Athos was interrupted by d'Artagnan's snickering.

“Sorry, I was just kidding.” Quickly, d'Artagnan turned serious again seeing the look on Athos' face. “I'm sorry, I know the situation is serious, with the accusations from Anne's husband and the involvement of Grimaud and everything. It was just....,” d'Artagnan trailed off. “Never mind. I think I know how to get access, but it's not so easy and, well, it’s illegal.”

Athos raised a brow. “And what you're usually doing to get all the information is not illegal?”

“Well, it's more of a grey zone I'm operating in most of the time, it's hard to prove illegality if the security hole is virtually self-made, though that doesn't make it automatically legal. What I mean to say is --” Now it was d'Artagnan’s turn to be cut short by Athos.

“I'm not sure if I want to know in minute detail what you're doing to get all the intelligence we need, just make sure you speak to Porthos. Let him know what you do and how you do it and make sure you're working within this grey zone you mentioned so that if you ever get caught, Porthos can get you off the hook. And speak to him today, okay?”

D'Artagnan glowered at Athos for a moment and grumbled something similar to a confirmation. Then he swivelled around in his chair to face his computers again. He pressed some keys and an empty document opened on the right screen. “Where and when should I start?”

“Go back eight weeks, give or take a few days. Start with hospitals around the agency and her apartment. Kensington, Hammersmith, Richmond, Hounslow, Kingston upon Thames, then spread further: City, Islington, Camden. You know what I mean.” Athos handed d'Artagnan a paper with addresses of Anne's flat and the agency's two offices in London. When he saw the expression on the young man's face he realised d'Artagnan might have no clue about the boroughs in London and didn't know what he was talking about. Athos had spent some time as kid with his parents and later as teenager in London and knew it well. “Just start with the vicinity of the addresses and then spread further. You can also try to find police reports about an accident, attack, burglary, anything that might have rattled my ex-wife and caused a hospital stay.” Athos suddenly hit on an idea. “I'll ask John if he can email me a list of her clients from this year. Maybe there are names on it we know. John also confirmed that Anne has met Peter Capaldi at least twice, so they know each other. We must follow this lead and try to find out if Richelieu remembers. Oh, I'll also ask John to give me the dates Capaldi and Anne met, maybe it's related to her odd disappearance for three days and the change in her behaviour afterwards.” Athos scolded himself for not having thought about this earlier when he was on the phone to John. He would send him an email the moment he was back at his desk. “I'm sorry I'm loading so much work on you, but neither Porthos nor I have the same internet skills as you.”

“No problem, it's okay. I'm glad I have things to do and don't have to worry about how Aramis is getting on at the police station at the moment. Do you think Tréville can set things straight?”

Athos put a hand on d'Artagnan's shoulder. “Don't worry, I'm sure Aramis can fend for himself quite well, don't underestimate his charm. If he's lucky, there'll be a female police officer he can enchant. And I'm sure the captain will keep an eye on him. They'll be back soon. These accusations won't stick.” If only he could convince himself of his statement, too. Ever since the call from Tréville, the sense of foreboding had only increased, and he wasn't as convinced as he tried to appear that this would be over quickly. Quite the opposite. But that was nothing he was willing to voice aloud. Not yet, at least.

“Do me a favour, speak to Porthos before you start,” Athos said, then he returned to his own office to write the email to John and to check if he had any more useful contacts in London.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two hours later, Aramis returned to the office with Anne and Henri. The cheerful atmosphere surrounding the three immediately reduced the tension with which the others had worked for the last couple of hours. Obviously, the interrogations had gone well. 

“Fortunately, it seems the police acted mostly on pressure from above, or from outside, not because they're convinced Anne or I have anything to do with it. I was under the impression they were working very unenthusiastically and only by rote, and were not really interested in what I said,” Aramis reported. “They asked simple questions and didn’t once press on any point. It was as if they just wanted a confirmation from me of things they already knew.”

“It was the same with me,” Anne said. “Although my lawyer often blocked a question and told them it was a known fact and nothing I should have to answer. But all the questions were very nondescript and they accepted every answer without questioning. I had the feeling they thought questioning me – or Aramis – was an unnecessary task they’d been given. I know my husband has a few connections within the police authority, high ranked connections, and I guess he pulled out all the stops he could.”

“In a nutshell, I think the police don't set much store by Autriche's accusations and I really hope this case, at least with regard to his accusations against me and Anne, will soon be closed. As far as I could judge, they believed what I told them. That I met Anne only after her husband had vanished and after he had been reported missing. That we didn't know each other before and that Rochefort admitted to me he had abducted Monsieur Autriche. Tréville filled them in on the events with Rochefort this summer, so they have the background story.”

“That sounds good,” Athos said. “It's something, at least. We can fully concentrate on Grimaud now, and my ex-wife.” He peered at his watch. “Let's say we meet in an hour to share what we have so far?” He looked at Aramis.

“I'll take Anne and Henri home and be back for the meeting.”

“Did you take Henri with you to the police station?” Porthos asked, eyeing the child who hung sleepily in Aramis' arms.

“I had planned to ask my friend, Hélène, to look after him, but Tréville insisted I should take him with me.” Anne chuckled. “He was relying on Henri getting bored, which he promptly did. Ten minutes into the interrogation he started whining and I let him crawl around the room and bug the officers. I guess this speeded up the interrogation considerably.”

“How clever of you, my love,” Aramis said, putting his arm around her shoulder. “Who'd have thought Tréville could come up with such brilliant ideas?”

“Oh, you know, I guess he had a lot of time practising with petulant Musket-- erm, children, to know enough about how to drive even hardboiled detectives insane.” Anne laughed, ducking away from Aramis who was left speechless.

“And don't forget all the practice he had with Louis!” Porthos guffawed.

Aramis smiled and nodded. He was glad that at the end of the day, they had something to laugh about. “Come on.” He put the arm not holding a tired Henri around Anne's shoulders, steering her with him to the door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next morning, Athos rose early to get to the office before the others arrived. He wanted to finish a case he had worked on for a few weeks concerning a wealthy lady’s suspicion that her nephews were stealing jewellery and valuables from her house, trying to make her believe she suffered from Alzheimer's disease and couldn’t remember where she had put the things. He had found out, and could prove it, that in fact they were stealing from her, and not only valuables from the house but also money from her various accounts. He intended suggesting to her that the case should be given to the police for further handling. 

While reading his newspaper along with a cup of black coffee, he found the article about Louis, even though he almost missed it. A name, Hannover, had caught his eyes, but he had already turned the page and skimmed an article about the latest development regarding the TTIP trade agreement before his mind finally processed what his eyes had seen. He turned back and searched the page for the word until he found it in a short article at the bottom. The article was just a few sentences long, informing the readers that Prince Ludwig von Hannover, younger brother of the current head of the House of Welf, was being treated for tuberculosis in the Charité Hospital in Berlin. He was on the road to recovery after catching the disease on a trip abroad through India a few weeks ago. _The white plague,_ Athos thought. Nowadays, the chances of recovery were good, and the Charité in Berlin, as one of Europe's biggest research-intensive medical institutions, certainly the top address for a German princeling suffering from the disease. Meaning that Louis would survive the disease this time and most likely leave the hospital healed but probably with a bunch of old memories in his baggage. For a moment, Athos considered simply stowing the information away for later, when the matter with Autriche and Grimaud was sorted out. Then he remembered the last time he had purposefully not passed on knowledge to Aramis, and what it had led to. This time he had better tell his friend right away what he had discovered.

However, during the day and the ensuing events, Athos completely forgot about the small article, and the knowledge fell into oblivion and soon was erased from his mind.

He was putting the coffee cup in the sink, ready to go, when his mobile rang. It was Aramis.

“Tréville just told us that Anne's husband is returning to Paris today. He's being transferred to a private clinic in the _Marais_. Tréville will let us know when he’s arrived there, so Anne and Porthos can visit him.”

“Do you think this is a good idea? He’s accusing Anne of being responsible for his abduction. Does Tréville really agree with this?”

“It was his idea, wasn't it? Personally, I don't like Anne anywhere near this man, but maybe if she speaks to him herself he'll let the accusations drop. Besides, she's determined to see and speak to him anyway. There's nothing you or I could do to stop her.”

Aramis' voice sounded strained, and Athos guessed his friend was anything but happy with Anne going to see her estranged husband and even more so because he couldn’t accompany her. Athos took a deep breath. “OK, maybe it will lead to something. I'm already on my way to the office, we can discuss the tactic as soon as I'm there. Porthos needs to stay in the background. We don't want Monsieur Autriche to think Anne has brought either a new partner or her legal adviser with her. Or, God forbid, a private investigator! We have to be cautious.”

They ended the call and Athos shrugged into his jacket and grabbed the keys. When he opened the door he only just missed being hit in the face by Ninon who stood in front of his door, fist raised to knock. With one look, he saw that she must have been crying.

“Ninon, what's wrong?” he asked in surprise.

“Can I come in? Do you have a moment?”

_No_ , Athos thought, but said instead, “I'm on my way to the office, but I have a few minutes. Come in.“ He held the door open and then trailed behind her into his living room. 

She slumped on the couch and immediately started speaking. “My arsehole of an ex-boyfriend wrote an email to my colleagues at school! Can you imagine he had the audacity to write them and _demand_ none of them start a romantic affair with me? Because he still loves me! Who does he think he is? Can you imagine how embarrassing this is?”

Athos needed every ounce of willpower to not start fidgeting on the chair. He was convinced this conversation was not one that would be over in the foreseeable future and he could most certainly not just throw her out in the middle of her pouring out her heart to him. He superstitiously checked his watch. “I'm sure your colleagues don't set any store by what he says or writes. They know him.”

“Of course not, but it's embarrassing anyway! How dare he dictate to others whether or not to date me? How would you feel if one of your ex-girlfriends, or your ex-wife, if you had ever been married, I don't know.... have you? I never asked, anyway, what would you feel if she wrote.....”

Athos' mind drifted while he half-heartedly listened to Ninon's chattering. He realised the telltale red around her eyes was not from crying out of despair but from tears of anger that she was bursting with. He threw another glance at his watch and tuned in again to the monologue. He had missed most of what Ninon had said and was caught off guard when she looked at him hopefully.

“Right?” she asked again.

“Erm, you know what I'm trying to get across to you all the time. If you want to get rid of him once and for all, try to obtain an injunction that doesn't allow him to contact you anymore or get near to you. Bring the big guns in and show him there's no chance, even in a thousand years, that you two are getting together again.”

“You know I can't, it would destroy him if I did. He's not really _that_ bad, and there's his mother to think about, she would be devastated. I mean she already is, it's just....” she trailed off.

“I know, or have at least an inkling from what you're telling me about him. But at least once a week you complain about what he's done or not done and how he’s getting on your nerves when he calls. You'll never get rid of him completely if you let him do this again and again.”

“I know,” Ninon said, staring past Athos.

He could see that she was mulling over his words. It was not the first time they had had a similar conversation, and in the end she'd always sighed and left open whether she would follow Athos' advice or not.

“Oh God!” she cried, looking at her watch, “I'm already late for school, I've got class in ten minutes! I gotta go, see you!”

She left without another word and was out of the door before Athos could utter a farewell. “Bye,” he said anyway and sighed in relief. Maybe he would still have time in the office before the others arrived. He decided to make a stopover in the _boulangerie_ across the street on his way to the office and buy some _mille-feuilles_ for everyone. He was convinced he had earned the right to treat himself to some high-calorie goodies.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two coffees and one _mille-feuille_ later he had finished his report for Madame Mondanton-Guyot and opened his notes on Milady on the computer. He had had trouble concentrating on the report, his thoughts wandering back to Ninon every now and then. Back in the 1630s she had been one of the most determined, proud and tough woman he had ever met. He wondered, not for the first time, what it was with her ex-boyfriend that she was prepared to suffer his outrageous behaviour ever since they’d split up. It was so unlike the _Comtesse_ de Larroque he knew from back in time. He had never met the said ex-boyfriend, but since lately he was determined to pay him a visit soon. 

“Tréville called and I'm on my way now to pick up Anne. Let's see what Monsieur Autriche has to say to a sick bed visit.” Porthos stood in the open office door, playing with the car keys. He had startled their leader out of his thoughts.

“Is Aramis going with you?” Athos asked.

“No, he'll stay here. Grudgingly, but he'll stay.”

“I'll make sure he's busy while you're away and not start staring holes into the wall. I hope you'll bring back good news. Give my regards to Anne.”

Porthos nodded. “See you later.”

After Porthos had left, Athos strolled over to the reception area, where Charlène was busy typing invoices. He could hear Constance rummaging in the copy room. “Have you talked to the tax adviser? He called me last week and had some questions about new acquisitions and our employee pensions. I told him to talk to you.”

Charlène stopped typing and turned to Athos. “Yes, he called yesterday. I hope I was able to help him with everything. He said he'll come back to you as soon as he has finished the papers.” She looked back at her screen. “I wonder, do you happen to know if we ever offered a discount to Rouiller sàrl? I can't find anything in the file, but they repeatedly transferred less money than the invoice total.”

“Erm, yes, sorry. I know the owner. I promised to give him a discount on personal protection hire if he purchases the entire alarm system with all its extras we offered. I’m afraid I forgot to tell you or write it down. Please, put a note into the file. It's 20 % discount they get on hires for regular personal protection.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Charlène muttered.

Athos' gaze drifted to Aramis' office where he could see his friend staring at the computer screen with a frown on his face. He typed something on the keypad and the text on the screen changed. The frown deepened. Then Aramis turned his head slightly and stared at the wall opposite his desk. From where Athos stood in the reception area, Aramis looked pale, but it was hard to tell if it was really the color of his skin or if it came from the screen illuminating his face. Or the wan December morning light sifting in through the window. With a pang of conscience, Athos realised he still hadn't spoken to Aramis about his blood results. He decided to do it straight away. Two steps away from the reception desk he heard the phone on his desk start ringing. “Can you pick it up for me, please?” he asked Charlène.

The secretary did as she’d been asked. “LaFère Security. Good morning, how can I help you?” She listened for a moment. “Please hold the line for a second.” She pressed a key on her telephone. “It's your friend John from London. Do you want to take the call or call back?”

Athos thought about it for about five seconds, his eyes fixed on Aramis, then he replied, “Put him through to my office.” He turned around and walked back to his room to take the call.

After he had finished the call and scribbled down some notes, Athos walked over to Aramis' office again. The younger man spoke on the phone, rolling his eyes when he saw Athos in the doorway. “Madame Rousseau,” Aramis mouthed, and now it was Athos who rolled his eyes and shuddered. He was glad that ever since Aramis had joined the firm he no longer had to suffer endless conversations with the wife of one of their top clients. Like many female clients or clients' wives, Madame Rousseau had been gravitated towards Aramis like a moth to the light as soon as she had set eyes on him and henceforth their former marksman had had to deal with her. Athos retreated, knowing Aramis would be occupied for at least half an hour. It didn't slip his attention, though, that Aramis looked paler than usual, and the shadows under his eyes only intensified that impression.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Two hours later, Porthos stormed into the office, and slammed the door loud enough that everyone in the office knew he was back. He swore like a trooper and only just managed to swallow the rudest curses when he passed Charlène and Constance, who looked at him with wide eyes. “That son of a –. How I would've loved to smash his face in!” 

“Isn't Anne with you?” Aramis materialised in front of Porthos before the big man reached his office.

“Naw. I saw her home.”

Those five words expressed more than any of Porthos' curses and door-slamming had. Aramis knew the visit hadn't gone well, to put it nicely. “What happened?”

Porthos somehow tried to avoid his friend's gaze. “He's an absolute arsehole.”

“That's nothing new,” Athos called from across. “Come and report.” He made an unmistakable gesture to gather in his office, including the other two in his order.

D'Artagnan, who had been busy in the kitchen getting a coffee and scouring the fridge for something edible, immediately walked to Athos' office. Aramis stared at Porthos for a moment longer before he, too, made his way over. Finally, Porthos brought up the rear.

Athos closed the door and pulled the blinds. It wasn’t that he didn't trust Constance or Charlène, but he was afraid it would be an unpleasant conversation with emotions running high. It was best the two secretaries didn't hear and see all of what was said in the small office. He took his seat behind the desk, d'Artagnan slumped down on the couch.

Aramis and Porthos remained standing.

“What happened?”

“First of all, when we arrived there, the nurse at the reception desk refused to give us the room number and let us see him. Monsieur Autriche had obviously given orders who he would see and who he wouldn’t. Anne didn't give in and insisted on her right to see him. Finally, the nurse caved in and offered to ask again and we were taken up to his room.” He paused and took a deep breath. “The moment we stepped into the room, Monsieur Autriche hurled accusations and insults at us.” Even though he used the plural, everyone knew it was Anne who had been the object of the storm of abuse. “He ranted without giving us the slightest chance to say a word. In the end, a doctor came and ordered us to leave before the _poor man_ had a heart-attack. I wished he had.”

“And what did he say specifically, if we leave the abuse out of it?” Athos asked.

“Most of what Tréville’s already told us. He accuses Anne of having planned, together with Aramis, to abduct and kill him. That Anne had affairs, Aramis being only one of them, and that he can't even be sure if Henri was his.”

At the mention of Anne's son, Aramis stiffened and concentrated his attention on Porthos instead of the wall he had been staring at. “What?”

Porthos expression changed and a flicker of sadness flashed over his face, briefly replacing the ire there. When he looked at Aramis it was with a shimmer of regret in his eyes. “He said as soon as he has the results from the paternity test and it is proven that Henri is his, he would make sure Anne never sees the boy again.”

Silence settled over the room for a moment, and it was not Porthos' jaw alone which could almost be heard grinding through the quiet.

Porthos continued with his report. “He said he has already initiated legal proceedings to get custody. He added that, if it shows Henri is not his, the child would have to go to a children’s home. He said, to cite him, he is not willing to support a bastard once his murderous, cheating wife and her gigolo are behind bars.”

“And you let him talk like that about Anne? If I'd been there I would have shut him up before he could have uttered a single word!” Aramis took a step towards Porthos, the look of surprised disbelief turning to anger.

“And I guess this is the reason why Tréville insisted on you not going,” Athos remarked dryly.

“And whose side are you on, Athos?” Aramis countered trenchantly.

“Yours, _mon ami,_ and he is right,” Porthos said, grabbing his friends shoulder. “As much as I wanted to wipe the arrogant expression off his face, that's only what he was waiting for, and we only would have played into his hands. I hate to say it, but I’m afraid this whole thing has reached worrying levels. From the legal aspect, his chances are better than ours at the moment.”

_“What?”_

They had all spoken at the same moment, the single word melting into one three-part cry of astonishment.

“You can't be serious,” Athos added. “Autriche has nothing and the police have nothing. No clues, no evidence, simply because _there is_ nothing they can hold against Anne or Aramis. How could they be in the better position?”

“Look, it's not the point whether there really is something they can hold against Anne and Aramis or not. From what I heard between all the ranting, I'm sure he has something. It may be faked, it may be illegal, but depending on how good his lawyers are, it could be enough to convince a judge. Law's got nothing to do with justice, not necessarily. Most of the time it simply depends on whose lawyers are the best and most cunning and clever. And who has the money to pay for it. As long as we haven’t got the slightest evidence proving the opposite, they could win through clever pleading only. It depends on what they are able to convince the judges and the police of. And I'm under the impression Autriche has an ace up his sleeve. People in high positions he knows and can ask for a favour, a written statement from Rochefort accusing Anne or Aramis, photos. I don't know, but Monsieur Autriche was too confident for my liking. And he’s full of hatred. That's not something we should underestimate, either.”

“You mean all of this is more a threat to us than we can oversee at the moment? There's a chance of Autriche getting away with it?”

“Don't forget it's Rochefort we're still dealing with here, at least his machinations. It's not so much the question of whether Autriche is getting away with it, but whether Rochefort will. What he obviously set in motion almost a year ago is clever and dangerous, and we still have no idea what this is going to entail. Rochefort's plan so far is very smart, now it depends on how much Autriche can add to the clue Rochefort laid out and how much of Rochefort's machinations we are able to bring to light. Furthermore, we still don't know Grimaud's place in the grand scheme.” Porthos paused for a moment before he added, “He is still somewhere out there, probably pulling strings, probably working with Autriche. And he's most definitely dangerous.”

“Great!” Aramis raked fingers through his hair. “What you're telling us is, even though the police have no evidence at all for any of his accusations, and apart from the fact that Rochefort planned this right from the start, including the murder of the four of us plus the threat against Anne, Autriche still has the best chance of convincing a judge that Anne and I are behind his abduction? That he has more than a nominal chance of getting custody of Henri? Is it this what you're trying to tell me?” Addressing Porthos in an angry voice, Aramis ticked off the points on his fingers. “That, only depending on how good his lawyers are working, at a moment's notice he'll be able to take Henri away from us?”

Porthos simply stared at his friend, not answering the question. The answer would have been yes, and he was not willing to say it aloud.

And there was no need to; Aramis could read the answer in his friend's eyes.


	3. Blood Values

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a short moment of complete bewilderment, Porthos felt his heart stop beating, then he rushed at his friend's side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter!

“No,” Athos said. “We will never let this happen.” He rose and stepped up to Aramis, putting a hand on his friend's arm. “There's evidence and we'll find it. We'll just have to intensify our efforts. Neither Rochefort nor Grimaud defeated us in the old days, and they will not now. We're stronger and we're cleverer. They will never get the better of us. Autriche may have smart lawyers, but we'll bring forward proof not even they can discount.”

Aramis looked at Athos for a moment and nodded, thankfully, encouraged. “I'll go and speak to Anne. I'll be back as quickly as possible.”

“Don't let this get you down. He may have an ace up his sleeve, but we've been through worse, and we've always prevailed. Right?”

“That we have,” d'Artagnan said, rising from the couch. “I'll return to the footage from Courville-sur-Eure. It's only a matter of time until I'll spot Rochefort in connection with Autriche or Grimaud. He _must_ be somewhere on the tapes.”

They filed out of Athos' office, Aramis to leave the firm and Porthos and d'Artagnan to return to their computers and the research waiting for them.

Athos walked to the window from where he could watch Aramis cross the street, heading for the metro station. He stared down rue Dante for a few minutes, mulling over the things Porthos had reported. The faint feeling of uneasiness spread further deep down inside him.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Once Aramis was back in the office they discussed Anne's visit to the hospital, brainstorming Autriche's behaviour and their strategy in the case until late in the evening. Tréville joined them, but he had nothing to report that would lessen the gloomy mood. He was still waiting for the confirmation they’d been assigned to the case. Until then, he could only get access to what the other police departments were willing to share with him. Furthermore, he could not assign any of his officers to look into this case and therefore had no influence on the determination with which the police pursued a trace. 

“Porthos is more versed than me in legal matters, but I do agree with him that the guilty party doesn’t necessarily get convicted and the innocent obtains justice. And it's really sad that I, as a police officer, have to say so, but it's a plain fact. If we don't find proof that bears examination in court, watertight proof, Autriche may be able to convince the judges that Anne and Aramis at least worked together with Rochefort or Grimaud. The fact that it was Aramis who shot Rochefort could even be interpreted by clever lawyers as trying to dispose of an unwanted conspirator. They might try to argue Rochefort wanted to back out or let Autriche go, and Aramis killed Rochefort to cover his tracks. The possibilities of constructing something are thousandfold. I don't know what lawyers or law firm he has hired, but I'll try to find out.” Tréville looked around. “But, I'm still determined to unearth proof. We know Rochefort planned this all along, and we know what Grimaud is capable of. They will not win. We will _not let_ them win. What's even more important now than ever is to find Grimaud. We cannot wait until he approaches us, we're running out of time. He's the only one who can testify that Anne and Aramis had nothing to do with anything.”

Porthos laughed dryly. “And you believe he will do so? If he's only half as evil as he was back then, he'll rather cut off his tongue than testify in favour of Aramis.”

“This may be true, but I'm still convinced he's the proof we need. Once we can link Grimaud to Rochefort we can link Rochefort to the abduction. Nowadays we have so many possibilities of getting evidence. A hair we find at the crime scene or a deleted voice message on a mobile dumped somewhere in the province. We'll find it and we'll be able to filter out every bit of information and evidence we need. If with no one else, Rochefort was at least in contact with Grimaud and Grimaud was in charge of everything at Courville-sur-Eure. If we have Grimaud, we have the proof we need.” With the same conviction Tréville had displayed as captain of the Musketeers or as Minister of War, that everything he did was for the well-being of France, he now conveyed the firm belief in the authority he worked for. The confidence that the work they did would be crowned with success was a calming thought for his former subordinates, a hope for their troubled minds they only too willingly absorbed.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis slipped into the bed, gently snuggling up against Anne's sleeping form. He planted a soft kiss on the skin beneath her ear, her hair tickling his nose. He found the gap in the sheets, his arm slowly sneaking its way around her slender waist. His mouth moved down a fraction, kissing again, and he could scent the fragrance that was Anne; love and light and warmth, like fresh cotton with a touch of flowery sweet and tangy sandalwood, and baby oil. 

“You’re late,” she mumbled, turning her head so she could kiss him on the mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Aramis murmured in reply between two kisses. “Tréville came by and we had to work out a strategy.” He inched closer and his hand started to rub small circles over her belly and hip. “Henri is sound asleep.” Aramis had checked in with the child before going to the bedroom. It was a habit he had adopted whenever he came home late and had not been there to say good-night to Henri. He had to see for himself his son was safe and sound before he could go to bed; if he had ulterior motives for checking if Henri was asleep, well... His hand moved further down.

Anne shifted so she could look at Aramis properly. “Do you remember what you once promised me?” she asked quietly.

“I promised you many things, and I stand by every single one.” Aramis’ mouth moved down along her neck, caressing her warm skin with soft kisses, while his hand moved up, petting her body all the way up until it reached the hollow of her throat where he could feel the pulse under his fingers. His mouth run along her collarbone to the smooth spot at the end, lightly scraping his teeth over the skin.

“You promised me you would always protect us. That you’d always watch over me and the Dauphin.”

She swallowed, and Aramis could feel it under his fingertips. She was not talking of the present time, he realised. She spoke of the times when he had been bound to protect her, by oath and by love. The recollection brought a stab of pain to his heart. He had not been able to watch over them for long.

“And you did, you stood true to your word as long as it was given to you.”

“And I still stand by this promise. Without hesitation, I will lay down my life for you and Henri. Always,” Aramis said, looking up at her. He cupped her cheek with his hand, his thumb slowly stroking the top edge of her lips. His eyes lingered where his finger touched. “Though I have to confess, this time I would prefer to spend the rest of my life with you two, rather than sacrifice it for king and country. I love you, Anne, more than I can ever tell.”

She raised her head to kiss him, raking her fingers through his curls, and dragged his head down with hers when she slowly brought her head back to the pillow. They kissed long and deeply until she finally broke away from him. “Promise me you will never leave us, Aramis. Promise me you will protect our son and let nobody take him away from us.” Her voice dropped to a mere whisper. “Promise me this will end well for us.”

He knew he could hardly promise things he had no influence on the outcome. He could not promise to stay alive when Grimaud was still somewhere out there; he would rather fight till death to keep away harm from those he loved most. He could not promise the crisis they were facing would not engulf them all in the abyss and tear them apart. What he could promise was that he would fight with all his might to retain their happiness, the life they shared. “I promise,” he breathed with deepest confidence. And this time he was bound and determined to see his promise through.

He kissed her, gently and feathery. And then again, and this time there was more heat and less tenderness. Anne opened her mouth a little more and he deepened the kiss, demandingly, his tongue exploring what he knew so well, and his desire resurfaced. Aramis' hands moved down again, teasing slowly, and he pushed up her sleeping shirt, sensing the light shudder it caused when his hand ran over her bare skin. “I love you,” he whispered again and prayed with as much fervour as the monk Aramis had when he had spent hours on his knees enveloped in his dialogue with God, that little Henri would sleep through the night, or at least the next three hours or so.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Two days later_

“Aramis, aren't you well?” Charlène looked worried when she saw Aramis rush by her desk in the morning.

“Excuse me?” Aramis looked up surprised. He had been deep in thought and only heard half of what the secretary had said.

“You look a little tired and pale. Are you ill?”

“No, I'm just sleeping badly these days. Maybe I caught a cold.” It wasn't entirely a lie, so Aramis hoped the elder woman would buy it and let it pass.

“I can brew you a tea if you'd like,” Charlène called after Aramis.

Aramis paused for a moment. “That's kind of you, but first of all I need caffeine. Like, lots of it. Maybe I'll come back to you later, if your offer still holds.” He smiled one of his most charming smiles. “Thanks, _ma douce._ ”

The older woman smiled back and turned to her computer screen again, sighing silently. If she could be half the age she was, she would most definitely not only offer tea to Aramis....

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

An oppressive atmosphere dominated the morning work in the office. While Charlène filed papers and repeatedly walked to and fro between her desk and the copy room, trying to be as silent as possible, the older Musketeers worked quietly in their rooms. Athos had his door closed to make some phone calls and Aramis came out of his office twice to get a coffee, but he didn't say much. Charlène wondered if there was a reason why they didn't speak much with each other, but she guessed it was plainly because none of them had any new information to share on the current case. 

Around ten o'clock, Athos came out of his office to get a coffee. He stopped by Charlène's desk and asked for a list of each man's appointments for the next few weeks. As much as each of them wanted to solely concentrate on this case, they could not neglect everything else. What he could do, though, was trying to reschedule some of the assignments and appointments; most of the clients would probably be more forthcoming if Athos called them himself, though he would leave the female clients to Aramis, once he had checked the list. Turning around, he hesitated for a moment as if deciding whether to go to one of his co-workers' room, but finally he returned to his office, leaving his door open this time.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Porthos' fingers danced across the keyboard. He had promised Tréville to write a short verbatim report about their visit to the hospital and Monsieur Autriche's rant, as well as his own thoughts and estimation on Anne's husband. He was already two days behind with his promise. Angrily he hit the Enter key; the longer he wrote and recalled the situation at the hospital, the more his mood dropped. He was rereading the last couple of sentences when he heard a thud from the room next to his, followed by loud clattering. He turned his head in time to see Charlène rise from her chair, the look of alarm on her face morphing into an expression of fright. Porthos rose and was at the door with two quick strides, his gaze following the secretary's line of sight. 

Athos appeared in his room's doorway as well. “What was that?”

In the room next to Porthos, which was arranged rectangular to his and occupied by Aramis, Porthos could see his friend lying on the floor, seemingly unconscious. The window was open and the chair in front of the desk was knocked over. The small display case on the wall opposite the desk, where Aramis kept an ancient musket and pistol, had fallen down, the glass lying shattered on the floor. For a short moment of complete bewilderment, Porthos felt his heart stop beating, then he rushed at his friend's side.

Seeing Porthos hurry into Aramis' room, Athos quickly walked over as well. Once he had passed by the reception desk, he had an unobstructed view to Aramis' room and could see the mess on the floor. “Oh no,” he breathed. Pushing his way past Charlène who stood in front of the door now, he stepped into the room. Aramis on the floor and Porthos kneeling beside him occupied most of the space, but Athos managed to squeeze by, carefully approaching the window. He peered out but could see nothing he would rate as dangerously. No sniper or other threat that might be responsible for Aramis lying on the floor. He closed the window and turned around.

“Aramis,” Porthos called, lightly patting his friend's cheek.

“He's bleeding. What happened?” Athos asked while stepping closer to the two men on the floor. He knelt down across from Porthos

“I don't know, I heard a thud and clattering. I think he cut his brow and cheek while falling. Look,“ Porthos answered, gently picking a small piece of glass from Aramis' skin. On his brow was a deep gush oozing blood and another, smaller cut graced his left cheek. Other than that, they could see no obvious injuries.

Athos grabbed Aramis' wrist, feeling for a pulse rate. He slowly exhaled relieved once he felt the steady beat against the tip of his fingers.

“Aramis,” Porthos called again. “Wake up, come on, you've given us enough of a scare.” One hand ghosted over Aramis' unruly hair, picking pieces of glass out of it on its way. The other hand lay on his friend's neck where Porthos could feel the pulse, the constant rhythm reassuring the bigger man.

Aramis remained unresponsive.

“Tell me, does this have to do with his odd blood results? You mentioned a few days ago there is still an issue with them. What is it?” Athos asked.

Porthos had started palpating his friend for hidden injuries. “I don't know. A while ago he mentioned the results were still not as they should be, though none of the doctors could tell him what it was. As far as I know he wanted to see a specialist and get another blood test, especially after he felt a little unwell and weak over the course of the last few weeks. He was anxious about it.”

Athos was astonished. “I didn't know, he never said a word.” The paleness he had observed on Aramis and his own lack of addressing the topic with his friend resurfaced his mind. “And did he go? What did the doctors say?”

Porthos looked up. “I don't know. I haven't asked him.”

“What do you mean, you haven't asked him!” Athos voice had picked up a cutting tone, the question accompanied by a piercing look. Unconsciously, he still held Aramis' wrist.

“Well, look, I really had--,” Porthos started defensively but was cut off.

“There is something amiss with his blood values ever since Rochefort injected him that crap, whatever it was. And you didn't think of asking him if he had it checked again? Made sure he went to see a doctor?”

Porthos' frosty stare and Athos' look of reproach clashed somewhere in midair over their friend's body, both looking daggers at the other. The temperature in the room seemed to have dropped a few degrees.

“Do you suggest I'm the one responsible for his health? Is it my job now to babysit everyone here because our fierce leader--”

“Maybe you've just been too busy with wherever you're disappearing to every evening to only once worry about a friend's health issue? Shouldn't you--”

“Say what? I must be hearing things. Did _you_ ask him? Did you only once tell him to have this issue sorted out once and for all? Make sure he sees a doctor again?” Porthos' voice gained volume as well.

“Who's the one hanging around with him all the time?” Athos' voice was soft and quiet now, but there was a cutting shrillness to it. “If you had only once--”

“Whoa! Come off it! Are you jealous? Are you going to tell me I'm his best friend and you're not, therefore it's my responsibility to see to that he –“

“Are you two out of your mind? Would you stop bawling each other out and _tell me what's going on?!_ ” D'Artagnan stood in the doorway with an astonished Constance in tow.

Athos looked up. “Oh, look who finally turned up and is gracing us with his presence!”

Constance gasped, and then there was a moment of utter silence, the women throwing awkward glances and the men staring at each other.

“Stop being an arsehole, Athos,” d'Artagnan finally said. “What happened to Aramis?”

“Wha--?”

All eyes turned away from d'Artagnan to Aramis.

“Why am I lying on the floor?” Aramis asked.

“That's what I'd like to know from you,” Porthos replied with a relieved sigh. “What happened?”

Aramis raised his hand to touch his brow. “Ouch. What happened?”

“Well, this is evidently getting us nowhere. You apparently crashed to the floor and managed to bring the display case down with you. Did you stumble? Or faint? How are you feeling?”

“Faint?” Aramis stared at Athos. Then a thoughtful expression appeared on the marksman's face. “I felt a little unwell and opened the window for fresh air. I turned, saw Charlène at her desk and thought I might ask her for a cup of tea. That's it. Can't remember anything else.”

“Have you been to the hospital recently to have your blood checked again?” Athos asked in a harsh voice.

Aramis looked from Athos to Porthos. “Erm. Can we have this discussion on a more equal eye level? I'm feeling a tiny bit like being in an unfavourable position down here.”

“Serves you right, Sleeping Beauty,” Porthos muttered, rolling his eyes. He offered Aramis a hand to haul him up.

Athos huffed and picked up the chair where Aramis took a seat a moment later.

D'Artagnan stepped into the room and with the four of them in the small office, all trying to avoid stepping on broken glass, the office was as good as crowded. D'Artagnan glanced at Constance and nodded slightly.

Charlène let her gaze sweep once over the men, then she grabbed her niece around the shoulder. “Come, love, best we let the boys sort this out. You can take care of the telephone and see if the mail has arrived yet, I'll brew some tea for Aramis.” Charlène knew at least Athos long enough to know it was best to leave them alone for the discussion that would follow. She had never before heard Athos lash out at others like that, especially not to his closest friends. From this behaviour she deduced that the current situation was most severe. And not only in regard to the accusations against Aramis and Madame Autriche.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“So, did you have it checked again or not?” Athos asked as soon as d'Artagnan had closed the door.

Aramis peeked sheepishly at Athos. “You know I had it checked repeatedly, don't you?”

“Yes, immediately after the incident with Rochefort and again, when it turned out that some of the results were diverging from the norm. And when they still showed deviations and no one could tell you what it was, you had a full blood count and what? A scintigram? MRI?”

“An MRI. The results were negative, they found nothing abnormal.”

“But the blood results still turned out to be abnormal, right?” Athos gazed down at Aramis with a cold stare.

“Yes.”

There was a pause during which Porthos and d'Artagnan shared a couple of quick glances. Athos seemed most irate. Seldom had they seen their friend making swipes at them as venomously as he did at the moment, and this certainly not on account of lacking justifiable occasions in the past. It was disturbing.

“And you went to see a doctor again?”

Aramis didn't answer.

“Did you?”

“Well, no. Not yet. I'll go and get it checked again, okay? It's only that no one can tell me what it is, they can't find anything and I'm feeling okay. I don't have any health issues, so there's not really a need to... ,” Aramis trailed off. He knew nothing of what he said would convince Athos. He wasn't convinced himself, but in lack of a better alternative, pretending he was healthy was better than thinking the worst.

Athos took a deep breath, exhaling slowly afterwards. He felt like he was dealing with a petulant child, but then he called to mind it was Aramis he was dealing with, and dealing with Aramis had never been easy and probably never would, no matter how old the former marksman grew. When he spoke again, Athos' voice was like a knife cutting glass. “You're telling me sudden fainting is not a health issue? You look pale and tired, you sometimes lack concentration and complain about dizziness. And now you are in all seriousness telling me everything is okay and your abnormal blood values are not alarming?”

“Ummh...”

“I'm not even going to bring up your friends here, we are of minor importance. But if not to yourself, don't you think you have some kind of responsibility towards Anne and Henri?”

That stung, and Athos knew it. The moment the words had left his mouth he knew his reproaches were coming from his own lack of care and concern for Aramis and not so much because he disapproved of Aramis' behaviour. Athos would have dealt with the health issue in the same way, he even had to admit to himself he wouldn't have gone to see a doctor in the first place as long as he had felt fit, and certainly not because some blood results showed some out of the line numbers.

“Hey, look, such a low blow was not necessary!” Porthos stepped into the breach for Aramis.

Abashedly, Aramis studied Athos. He knew his friend was right, but having the truth thrown in his face in such a harsh way was not nice.

Athos' gaze pierced Porthos for a moment, then he left the room without another word. He stalked to his office and closed the door behind him.

“He is pretty pissed off with me, isn't he?” said Aramis.

“I think he is more pissed off with himself for letting the issue with your health slip his mind,” d'Artagnan replied, still looking across the office space to where he could see Athos' head just above the line that parted the frosted part of the glass from the looking-through-part. The head disappeared when Athos took a seat behind his desk.

Porthos grimly shook his head, darting Aramis an angry glance. “Don't think you're off the hook yet. I'll get the first aid kit and patch you up.” He turned around and stormed out of the office, a tad more vigorous and louder than Athos' departure.

Aramis grinned sheepishly at d'Artagnan. “And what have you done to incur Athos' wrath?”

D'Artagnan turned, looking at Aramis in surprise.

“I came around in time to hear him scolding you for being late. So?”

The young man shrugged his shoulders. “I've no idea. Constance has the day off, and Athos knows this, so it's not that she was late or anything. She just decided to accompany me and say hi to her aunt. And I'm certainly entitled to start later, I was in the office way past midnight yesterday. Athos knows this full well, too.”

Aramis chuckled. “Well, it's better you than me who takes the brunt of his anger.”

D'Artagnan shook his head, an evil smile crawling up his face. “You're miles away from being off the hook yet, believe me.”

Porthos returned and started dabbing Aramis' wounds, regardless of Aramis attempts to push away the bigger man's hands. “Will you just stop behaving like a baby?” Porthos growled angrily. “Do you have any idea how hard and nerve-racking it is to continuously look after you? It's going on ever since the day you stepped into the garrison.”

“For the record, I was a Musketeer long before Tréville brought you along, and as far as I remember it’s always been me who’s had to patch you all up, and more than once. So don't tell me anything about worrying.”

“Doesn't change all the sorrow you cause us,” Porthos muttered and grabbed the first aid kit.

Just as Porthos plastered a band-aid on the cut on Aramis' brow, Athos returned and held out a paper to Porthos. “You'll go with Aramis and see this doctor straight away. He’s waiting for you, don't hang about.”

Porthos stared at Athos with puckered brows, but he held back the gruff reply he had on the tip of his tongue about being ordered around. Instead, he whipped the paper out of Athos' hand and studied the name and address. “Who is this Professor Bellamy?”

Athos glowered for a moment. “A favour I'm calling in. He is a specialist. Go and get yourself a full medical examination. He'll find out what's wrong with you.” The last words were addressed to Aramis, and with an undertone that left no space for objections.

“An expensive specialist from the address you've written down, I would presume. I bet he only accepts wealthy private clients in his fancy private clinic.” Porthos said.

“Professor Bellamy? But he's one of the leading lights in clinical immunology and a brilliant serologist. We can't afford him, not to speak of the fact you'd have to wait months if not years to get an appointment with him. He's simply the best in his field,” Aramis said, with no small amount of awe in his voice.

“Well, he owes me a favour and is waiting for you, so I suggest you better get going. He doesn't take kindly to having to wait for a patient. Owing a favour or not.”

Aramis rose from the chair. “Thanks,” he said quietly to Athos, then nodded to Porthos to signal he was ready to go.

Porthos darted a last glance at Athos, following Aramis out of the room.

“Well,” d'Artagnan said after they had watched the other two leaving the office.

Before the young man could continue, Athos spoke. “I'm sorry. I beg your pardon for what I said.”

For a moment, d'Artagnan looked surprised. “For what you said earlier? Don't fret, it's already forgotten.”

“No, it wasn't right. I had no right to make such a harsh remark and it was uncalled for.“

D'Artagnan sighed. “It's okay, Athos. I know you didn't mean it. Besides, I think it's rather Porthos you should apologise to, from what I heard he took the brunt of your anger.”

Athos studied the younger man. “Yes, I guess you're right, though I was not angry with Porthos. I had--”

“I know, you're angry with yourself. For not being more observant, for not having asked Aramis to go and get his blood checked again, for not having ordered him to do so. Am I right?”

Athos didn't reply.

“Look, I know you're always worried, more than is good for you. You're not responsible for a whole Musketeer regiment any more, nor are you responsible for our well-being. We're all grown men who can take care of themselves. We're old enough to decide what's good for us and what's not.”

Athos raised his brow in a way only a Comte de la Fère was able to do.

“Okay, okay. What I meant to say is that while you and Porthos and Aramis are old men and I'm still a greenhorn, it doesn't mean we can't look after ourselves. Me included.”

“You’re calling me an old man?”

“Well, yes!” D'Artagnan grinned.

Athos shook his head, sighing. “If I haven't said so before, I'll do it now. One day, you'll be the death of me. Come, let's get something done while Aramis and Porthos are away.”

They returned to their computers. While d'Artagnan continued with sifting through CCTV footage and loading down illegal patient data from English hospitals, Athos stared at his computer screen, dreadfully awaiting the return of Aramis and Porthos. He was convinced Dr. Bellamy would get to the bottom of what was wrong with Aramis and produce acceptable results. He only hoped that along with the results came an effective cure for his friend's problem, and that it was not already too late.


	4. Bygone Times

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was as beautiful as ever, and the sight made something tug inside him, brief and scarcely perceptible.

Aramis and Porthos returned to the office late afternoon.

“What did he say?” asked Athos, materializing in the reception area even before Porthos had closed the door.

“He's such a brilliant medic, his knowledge of immunochemistry and genetics is unbelievable. Did you know he’s been on the shortlist for the Nobel Prize in Medicine twice? His research in the field of--”

“Aramis, what did he say! I mean about your blood values!”

“Oh. That.”

Porthos grinned. “You must excuse him, he's still soaring in higher regions. I didn't understand one single word of what the good doctor or the nurses were talking about, but what I got in between the technical jargon was that it seems the outlier results in Aramis' blood tests come from a substance the muscle relaxant contained and which Aramis is allergic to. It's somehow still in his system but wearing off. Slowly, if I got it right. His blood is or was producing antibodies, which in turn started destroying other blood cells, good blood cells, which leads to an imbalance of......” Porthos stopped. “What the heck, I don't know. I'm no medic. Anyway, we have to wait for the final results and Aramis has another appointment there next week but the end result is that Aramis is not dying. No poison is slowly killing him or destroying his internal organs or making him a bit batty. Rochefort was evidently not as evil as we feared. He simply used and overdosed a muscle relaxant Aramis' charming leucocytes didn't take kindly to.”

The relief of what he had just disclosed was visible in every fibre of Porthos' body. From the straight posture to the beaming smile to the sparkle in his eyes; Porthos was happy that at least one of the most burdensome problems they were currently facing had been solved.

It was a weight off Athos' mind, too. He stepped up to the two men lingering in the reception area and briefly hugged Aramis. “Thank God, I was really worried,” he mumbled into the marksman's neck.

“Me too,” Aramis replied, patting Athos' back. He stepped back, letting go of Athos. “Now that this is solved, let's go kicking some asses, namely Autriche's and Grimaud's.” Aramis' eyes twinkled with energy.

“Did he prescribe any medication? How long will it take until this has worn off completely?” Athos asked.

Aramis shrugged. “Dr. Bellamy says it will be out of my system entirely within the next four to six weeks, and he gave me some pills to support the process. There’ll be no more fainting or being worn out, if that's what you mean.”

Athos sighed. “I was merely concerned for your health, though if I don't have to pick you up off the floor any more, I'm fine with it.” He couldn't suppress the smirk from spreading further on his face.

Aramis huffed, rolling his eyes and made his way to his office.

Athos turned to Porthos, lightly putting a hand on the bigger man's upper arm. “I'm sorry for what I said earlier.”

Porthos nodded and accepted the apology, and just like that the quarrel between them was settled.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos returned to his office to finish the report he had been working on before Aramis and Porthos had come back. Then he made two phone calls, postponing client meetings, and one call to Tréville, asking his former captain if the police had any new information about the whereabouts of his ex-wife. Tréville said no and Athos spent another quarter hour structuring a timetable of Milady's activities over the course of the last ten weeks. He didn't have much he could fill in into the respective columns. He was still waiting for John's list of current clients his ex-wife had worked with over the last half year. He didn't know if John just hadn't found the time yet to put it together or if his friend had second thoughts about giving away confidential information. He rolled back his chair and rose to collect his comrades-in-arms for a short briefing. 

“I just sent my report to Tréville and I’ll now help d'Artagnan with going through the patient lists he has been able to access,” Porthos said after Athos had given a short update on the actual state of affairs of his information procurement regarding Milady.

Athos nodded.

“While Porthos is going through these lists, I’ll look through the footage I have from Courville-sur-Eure. I started going back from the day they found Autriche, but it's a lot of stuff to look through. Friaize itself has one camera, working only sporadically, and that's a lot given there’s only about 200 people living there, most of them elderly so you wouldn't expect much vandalism in the village. The CCTV there is connected with the system in Courville-sur-Eure, so it was easy to access, too. But Courville itself covers a wide area, including not only the city and some smaller hamlets around, but also farmland nearby.” D'Artagnan looked up from his papers. “Who would want to cover miles and miles of farm roads through CCTV? Do you think there's a higher-than-average stealing rate for pumpkins and sugar beets in this area?”

“We wouldn't know, Gascon,” Aramis replied dryly with a chuckle in his voice. “You're the expert in the field of farming. Is there a higher rate?”

D'Artagnan threw his pen at Aramis, the latter catching it mid-air.

“Anyway, I'm continuing with that,” d'Artagnan added, glowering at Aramis.

“Did you find anything so far?” Athos asked.

D'Artagnan shook his head. “Not really. I've one sequence of a man in a car. It _could_ be Rochefort, but it could as well be any other man. You can't read the plates, so there's no chance in tracking the car. The quality of the surveillance cameras in this area is really bad.”

“And Grimaud?” Aramis asked.

“I have some footage with him, leaving the farmhouse, driving out of Courville-sur-Eure. But since both the men and woman the police arrested as well as Autriche named Grimaud as one of the persons involved, we already knew he was there, so the footage doesn't help with Rochefort. Tréville’s already checked the plates; they were stolen.”

“Could Rochefort have been in the car with Grimaud? On the back seat, hidden from view?”

“Maybe, but the quality of the footage is too bad to check this properly.”

“All right.” Athos turned to Aramis. “Do you have new information about Grimaud's background? His connections?”

“Not much, and nothing that ties him to Rochefort so far. I'll concentrate on the Spanish papers now, it seems he's spent a lot of his time in Spain, and not only in prisons there.”

Everyone rose and gathered their papers.

“Anyone for dinner later?” Athos asked.

“Not me, I'm off in about an hour, I've a dinner engagement,” Porthos replied.

D'Artagnan shook his head “I have a date with Constance.”

Aramis shrugged one shoulder, looking at Athos apologetically. “You're welcome to join me and Anne for the evening, we can order Thai or Japanese.”

“No, thanks. I think I'll take some of the paperwork home with me and make myself comfortable with something from the fridge.”

“Shall we have lunch together tomorrow? At _Pierre's_?” d'Artagnan suggested.

Nodding and grunting their confirmation, all men filed out of the conference room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos unlocked his door and halted, his fingers lightly resting on the key, frozen in the movement. He always turned the key twice when he locked the door. Always. Now he had turned the key just once and then the mechanism had gripped, the bolt starting to slip back. He would only have to do a quarter-turn instead of a full and a quarter to open the door. He stood motionless for a moment, countless thoughts twirling in his mind. Then his nose picked up a scent, faint and fleeting, but it was there. He knew the scent. 

He stepped into the dark apartment, pulling the door shut behind him. “Why are you here?” he asked, walking into his living room where he could make out the dark silhouette in his armchair against the dim light pouring in through the windows.

“What sort of greeting is that? I thought you'd be happy to see me.” Her voice flowed through the room, beguiling and seductive.

“What do you want?” Athos flicked on the light switch and made his way over to the sideboard. There was no way he was going to have this conversation without alcohol. He poured himself half a glass of red wine, purposely not asking her if she wanted something to drink, too. He sipped the red liquid and finally turned to face her. She was as beautiful as ever, and the sight made something tug inside him, brief and scarcely perceptible.

“I simply want to say hello to my ex-husband. Is that so odd?”

“Visitors usually use the doorbell and wait until they're invited in.”

“Oh, come on, you know me better than that.”

They stared at each other, like beasts lying in wait for the right time to attack, and kill.

“I'm curious. Did you marry Lord Edmund de Winter again?”

“Please, Athos.” She pouted, her eyes narrowing a fraction, not once leaving his face. “I never make a mistake twice in life. Of course not, I chose this name entirely out of sentiment.”

“You married me again, so much for that.”

“I spoke of mistakes, Athos.”

The reply caused Athos to mull over it for a second or two. He eyed her intently. She hadn't changed much, she was still a beautiful, attractive woman. A dangerous woman. Her green eyes burned with a fever he still had problems withstanding. “What do you want, Anne?”

“Say hello,” Anne replied lightly, shifting in her chair so she had a better look at Athos who leaned against the sideboard. “See how you're doing, report back, that sort of thing.”

“Why are you here, why are you back in Paris under a false name? Why did you give up your job?” He pushed away from the sideboard and seated himself opposite her on the second armchair. He balanced the wine glass on the armrest, crossing his legs. “Don't play me for a fool. What do you want?”

She curled one strand of her hazelnut hair around her finger, well aware of the seductive effect that gesture usually held. “Revenge, _chéri_. What do you think?” she answered, her voice feather-light, dropping the words like fleeting pettiness cast to the wind.

Athos slouched in his seat, suddenly feeling completely exhausted. He was so done with all these machinations and had so many problems on his mind that he felt too worn out to start a game of cat-and-mouse with his ex-wife. “Are you working for the Cardinal again?”

“Richelieu?” There was the merest hint of surprise in her voice, gone before Athos could be sure if he had heard it. “He was always a pleasant employer. Who knows? He might have one or two things I'll have to see to for him. Why do you ask?”

Athos stared at her. “So he's really back?” Then, after a heartbeat, “You know he killed Adele. Aramis might still intend to avenge her death should Richelieu cross his path again, and I'm not speaking of wiping the smug smile he so loves to display from his face. And Aramis being distracted by that is the last thing we need at the moment,” he murmured. Why, _why_ , in the world had he told her this? The words had left his mouth on their own accord, gone before he was able to stop them. It was her presence that made it hard for him to think straight, and he was convinced she knew it.

“That's his own fault. He shouldn't have slept with Richelieu's mistress,” she answered coldly, raising her hand to stop Athos from saying something. “I'm not here to discuss Aramis' love affairs and the resulting consequences. I did my bit to save his neck from the noose once or twice, remember?”

“What are you really here for? To kill me? D'Artagnan? Take revenge on us? What’s your agenda?”

She shifted in her seat, sitting up, her facial expression changing. “You never change, Athos, do you?” A moment later she rose, and her skirt rustled quietly, much like it had done when she had worn more silk, more satin than now, back in the 17th century. “I'll see you, I guess,” she breathed and disappeared through the living room door, the soft thud of the outer door indicating she had left the apartment.

Athos didn’t have strength to rise and stop her. Or make sure she really had left. He dropped his head to the back of the chair and stared at the ceiling, exhaling slowly. If she’d made approaches to him, he wasn't sure if he would have been able to withstand them, and that was a most disturbing thought. He was glad she had left, but he wondered if he would have to fear the shadows from now on, in case he was stabbed in the back, unprepared. And he wasn't one step nearer to find out if she had worked with Rochefort.

He sat motionless for an indefinite time, his thoughts roaming here and there, never settling anywhere long enough to come to a conclusion. Would she come back? When? Why was she in Paris? Who was in danger, beside the men she had bedded and the women close to those men? Ninon? Anne? Would his ex-wife really kill someone now, like she had done in the old days? Was she working for Grimaud?

An hour had ticked away within the blink of an eye until Athos finally heaved himself up from the chair and shuffled to the kitchen. His hunger was gone, but he was thirsty and before he had more red wine, he needed some water in his system to dilute the alcohol. He switched on the light and his gaze fell on the newspaper on the counter.

_Merde!_

He had forgotten to tell Aramis about Louis. He checked his watch to see whether he could call him now, but decided to leave it be for the evening. He would call both Aramis and Tréville first thing in the morning and inform them about the probable resurrection of King Louis XIII. And of Milady's entrance to the game.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos wasn't sure how or why, but he woke with a horrible headache and much too late. One glance at his mobile showed him that he needed to charge the battery, and the blank, black screen certainly explained why the alarm hadn't gone off and woken him. He stumbled from the bedroom to the bathroom to pee and splash cold water on his face. The tiny digital clock above the mirror told him it was half past eight. If he hurried with his shower and forwent breakfast, he could still be in the office around nine. He watched his reflection in the mirror for a moment, his eyes tracing the water dripping from his face. Then he grabbed the towel and dried his face on his way back to the bedroom. He plugged the mobile into the charger, grabbed two aspirin on his way back to the bathroom and turned on the water in the shower. Gulping down the pills with a few mouthfuls from the tab he stepped into the shower.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Aramis,” said the man who had in times past been known as Louis XIII of the House of Bourbon, King of France and Navarre, son of Henry IV. 

Aramis swivelled around, suddenly finding himself face to face with a man who looked exactly like his former sovereign, only without a wig.

“I should have had you executed while I still had the power and right to do so,” the man said lightly, as if it was the most common thing on earth. “Letting you live was a mistake, not a royal pardon.”

“What? You still bear a grudge after all this time?” asked the man who had vowed vengeance on Richelieu should the man ever cross his path again.

“Would you not, if you'd been deeply humiliated?”

Aramis didn't bother to reply, he simply kept staring.

“Are you together with her? Did you finally achieve what you weren’t able to have back then?” Louis' tone had picked up a whiff of scorn. “I guess you stole her from somebody else this time, too.”

Before Aramis could counter with a witty reply, Anne stepped out of the shop behind Aramis, freezing on the threshold and blocking the sliding doors. She had Henri sitting on her left hip and a shopping bag in her right hand.

“Anne, how lovely to see you again.”

“Louis,” Anne gasped. “What are _you_ doing here?”

Louis rounded Aramis and stepped closer to Anne as the former queen finally moved away from the sliding doors to stand beside Aramis. 

“Ah, what a lovely child,” Louis said, though his tone suggested he was far from delighted to see the infant. “Is it Aramis' offspring or is he the cuckholded father this time?” Louis asked acridly, taking a closer look at young Henri. When no one replied, he turned his eyes away from the child and stared at Aramis.

“What do you want?” Anne asked quietly. “Why are you here?”

“If my memory doesn't fail me, I don't have to answer to anyone about what I do or where I go. Including you.”

“Then leave us alone,” Aramis snapped, grabbing Anne's arm. “Neither of us has any obligation towards you any more, so we don't have to stand here and listen to your ramblings. Good day.” Aramis walked away without once looking back, pulling Anne with him. He felt his heart beating uncomfortably fast in his chest. The encounter had rattled him, though he knew there was absolutely no reason for it. Louis, even if he remembered his old life, had not the slightest right to lay claim to anyone or anything. No claim to Anne or Henri, no claim to the loyalty the Musketeers had once sworn their sovereign. And yet, the appearance of Louis was one resurfacing too much for Aramis' liking. Having to deal with Anne's estranged husband back in their lives was problematical and threatening enough, he didn't need another ex-husband of hers putting obstacles in their way.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos' phone buzzed the moment he walked into his bedroom, still dripping from the shower. He let go of the towel around his waist to unplug the phone and take the call. “Hello?” 

“Louis is here. In Paris. He's back. I mean, Louis apparently remembers; Anne and I just met him outside the deli in rue de Vaugirard.“

“Shit!” Athos almost dropped the phone. “Look, I'm sorry, I wanted to--”

“It's not your fault. I don't know what he's doing here, but I really, really, _really_ don't feel like dealing with him right now!”

Athos could hear the anxiety in Aramis' voice. Louis showing up right now was the least any of them needed, but for Aramis it was just adding the final touch to this whole Autriche affair. And Athos had messed up giving at least a warning to Aramis. “Where are you?”

“I'm on my way to the office.”

“Okay, I'll be there in fifteen minutes. We should inform Tréville.”

“I'll call him.”

Athos rang off, throwing the mobile on the bed. He felt like kicking himself. It had been his job to inform both Aramis and Tréville about Louis and he had failed spectacularly. “Well done, Athos,” he muttered, fishing clean pants from the drawer.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I didn’t know Louis was in Paris now nor did I know that he’s regained his memory,” Tréville said. “However, I've inquired and found out that his sister moved. She's living somewhere in the _Quartier des Invalides_ now, and Louis is staying at her place, that's why the _7ème arrondissement's_ police department is responsible for him. They knew of his visit and are entrusted with his safety.” Tréville coughed to cover the gratitude he felt for not being the responsible police department any more and having to deal with Louis and his antics. “I spoke to the officer in charge this morning after Aramis called me.” 

“Look, I'm really sorry it slipped my mind to tell you about the article. I wanted to tell you straight away, but then Aramis, erm, felt unwell and--.”

“Athos, it's okay,” Aramis interrupted. “It wouldn't have made any difference if I had known. Fact is he's here and he remembers and he's still pissed off enough with me that he would still rather see me dead than walking side by side with Anne. _That's_ what really worries me, his remarks about Anne and Henri. How can he still be jealous after all this time?” Aramis threw his hands into the air to stress his point. “He's married, and a German princeling, what does he want with Anne?”

“Probably nothing,” Porthos interjected. “But he's still Louis and has to show off. At least I think he doesn’t pose a threat. How long will he stay?” Porthos turned to Tréville.

“As of today, ten days, two weeks at the most. He wants to be back in Germany for Christmas, though he might change his mind anytime. You all know him.”

“So, let's hope we don’t see any more of him in the next two weeks. If he contacts us, or Anne, we'll deal with it then.” Athos looked around to see if the others agreed. He took a deep breath before he carried on. “Milady de Winter paid me a visit yesterday evening.”

“Well, since you're still alive and breathing, it went well, I presume?” d'Artagnan said teasingly.

“I have no idea what she wants here, but she spoke of revenge, and she spoke of Richelieu. From what she said I suppose Richelieu has regained his memories and she is either working for him again or is at least in contact with him.”

“Did she work for Rochefort or for Grimaud? Is she in contact with Grimaud?” asked Tréville.

“I--, erm, I don't know. I didn't ask her.”

Stunned silence met Athos' statement.

“You didn’t ask her?” Porthos furrowed his brow, staring at his friend. “What did you two talk about then? Did you reminisce about your marriage?”

“She doesn’t exactly tell you everything that's on her mind,” Athos bit back. “We talked about the Cardinal and why she's back in Paris and, well, I asked her but she didn't give me an answer, okay?”

“And you let her go without answers? Did she assault you or something?” Porthos was not yet done with Athos.

Athos glowered at his friend.

Tréville interrupted. “Will she contact you again? Do you have any idea where we can find her? Did she give you contact details?”

“No, but I'm sure it won’t be the last time I see her. I'm just not quite sure if next time I can expect a knife in my back or a ring at the door.”

“All right.” Tréville pinched the bridge of his nose. “At least I have good news. I've been assigned to the Autriche case this morning and have already got three men working on it. I'll get copies of every report by the afternoon and have full access to the files. So far, they don't have anything about Grimaud, other than the name and diverging personal descriptions, and nothing on Rochefort. But we're working on it. I have copies of all written statements from Autriche plus his lawyer's contact details. I'm planning to look at the farmhouse in Friaize tomorrow and pay a visit to the _gendarmerie_ in Courville-sur-Eure. I'll report tomorrow evening to you.”

The determination with which Tréville spoke was infectious. They had the feeling now that Tréville and his team were fully involved in the police investigation, it would only be a matter of time before they had every proof they needed.

“Let's go back to work then,” Porthos exclaimed, rubbing his hands impatiently.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Athos, do you have a moment?” D'Artagnan stood in the door, waiting for a reaction. 

Athos looked up. “Sure, come in. What is it?” For some time now he had noticed a shift in the young man's behaviour, something seemed to weigh him down. Minor, but it was there if one looked closely. With everything that was going on now, Athos had pushed the plan to speak to d'Artagnan aside until later, though he knew their current problems most likely had nothing to do with the haunted look of worry on the boy's face.

D'Artagnan closed the door and took a seat in front of Athos' desk. “I'm scared for Constance. As long as she doesn't know about our old lives, she has no idea about the real danger Grimaud and others pose. What if Grimaud approaches her on the street? Or Milady? She would have no idea of the possible danger she is in. “

“You're certainly right, but I don't know how we can change this, apart from asking her to be extra cautious.”

D'Artagnan ducked his head. “It's not only that. I need to know what happened to her back then. How she died, how she got on after--, you know. After I didn't return to her. It kills me not knowing what became of her....”

Athos was taken by surprise. “Haven't you spoken to Tréville?” They had discussed this topic shortly after Constance had joined the firm, that Tréville might be the one to shed light onto the events and the life back in Paris after 1643. Athos had presumed d'Artagnan had followed his advice and asked their former captain about it. Tréville had never mentioned anything about that to Athos, but then there wouldn't have been a reason to. After all, it still was not easy for all of them to be reminded of the life they had had – and had lost – back in the 17th century. He wasn't even sure if Aramis and Anne had ever talked about the Dauphin, or rather Louis XIV, and their son's further life after Aramis had fallen in the war. The Dauphin had been crowned only five days before Aramis was killed on the battlefield of Rocroi. For five precious days, Louis XIV had been their sovereign and Aramis had served and died for his son, his King. Even now, almost 400 years later, this had to be a sad and bitter memory for the former regiment's marksman, and Athos could understand the feeling if his friend preferred not to talk about those things. The same apparently applied to d'Artagnan. Old wounds were better left untouched; talking about the past time could rip open barely healed wounds, and maybe d'Artagnan had recoiled from the idea of speaking to the former Minister of War about things the Gascon didn't want to learn.

The young man shook his head, looking miserable. “No.”

Athos waited for more, but d'Artagnan made no move to continue. “Why not?” Athos asked gently, and he could already read the answer in the younger man's expression when he looked up.

“I didn't dare. I didn't want to hear about how Constance suffered and mourned. I....” d'Artagnan trailed off. His former mentor understood what he meant, there was no need to say more.

Athos nodded and they sat in silence for a moment. “Do you want me to speak to Tréville?” He could listen to Tréville's report and pass on an edited version to d'Artagnan, should there be things the young man better not heard about. “Knowing about her past life might gain us useful information. Maybe we would even be able to stir her memory.”

D'Artagnan shook his head vehemently. “No!”

Athos was a taken aback by d'Artagnan's reaction. He'd thought this would have been the reason why he’d come to Athos. “Sorry, I thought you still wanted to know.”

“Yes! No, I mean I still want to know, but asking you to speak to Tréville would seem rather.... cowardly. Though I _have_ to admit I dreaded speaking to him, or rather listening to what he has to say, that's why I haven't done so yet.” The Gascon's eyes settled hopefully on his opposite. “Would you? I mean, accompany me?”

“Of course.” Athos looked fondly at d'Artagnan, glad the young man had turned to him rather than one of the others. D'Artagnan looked so relieved and thankful Athos hoped the conversation with Tréville would not wipe that look completely off the young man's face.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I'll have a coffee, that's all.” Tréville had agreed to meet with Athos and d'Artagnan between a staff meeting and the press conference he was due to lead in about half an hour. They had settled on meeting at a small _bistrôt_ a stone's throw away from the police department. Tréville looked harried and less enthusiastic than he had this morning when he had spread the news that he was finally, officially working on the Autriche case. “Right, you wanted to know about the past.” Tréville addressed Athos who in turn looked at d'Artagnan. 

“Yes, um, I wanted to ask you about Constance. I, erm, what became of her? Do you know how she died? When she died? Did she stay in Paris after the war?” D'Artagnan shifted uncomfortably on his chair. “Maybe we could somehow stir her memory, so she would be aware if she encounters someone from the past. And once she does,” d'Artagnan added quietly, “I'd be prepared for the things she remembers.”

Tréville sighed, and in that moment Athos realised with a pang of regret that none of them had ever asked Tréville how his life had gone on after the war. The older man had made a few sparse and general remarks about that time after they had reconnected, but had never told them anything specific; especially not how and when the Minister of War had died. And none of them had ever asked.

“When I returned to Paris she had already received the news. She was devastated, but I guess she had always known that marrying a Musketeer might bring grief and pain.” The coffee arrived, and Tréville sipped from the hot brew before he continued. “Constance had always been a strong woman and she carried on with determination and strength. As far as I could judge, she absorbed the loss better than others I knew of.” He took another sip. “But I didn't often see her then. With the ongoing post-war negotiations and the official crowning of Louis XIV, I had my hands full. As for her further life, I can't provide information. I died a few months after the war ended. There was a murder attempt on the young King and we managed to thwart the plan, but I saw quite a number of Musketeers die that day. I sustained fatal wounds, but lived long enough to assure myself the King was safe and the assailants captured or killed. I died with that knowledge, which was comforting enough for me that I could meet my maker with a clear conscience.” Tréville gazed from d'Artagnan to Athos. “I'm sorry, I can't help you with your question regarding Constance's further life and the day and manner of death. I didn't live long enough.” Tréville's eyes grew distant and a lugubrious expression covered his face. “Neither did I see the child grow up nor the young King rule France.”

Before d'Artagnan could react, Athos spoke. “I'm sorry, we neglected to ever ask what became of you after your return to Paris. I'm sorry to hear you died only so shortly after surviving the war.” He put his hand on Tréville's arm, smiling lightly. “But once more you ensured the survival of France. A truly heroic way to die.”

Tréville smiled back. “That I did, and it was my duty and honour.” Addressing d'Artagnan, he continued, “You might want to speak to the Que--, to Anne. Constance moved back to the palace some time after, well, after the remaining Musketeers returned from the front. As you know, Constance and Anne had always been close, and I was under the impression they became even closer in their widowhood, Constance was one of the Queen's closest and most trusted advisers through her regency, at least the short time I was allowed to witness it. Anne might know what happened to Constance, maybe they stayed together until the Queen retired to the convent, and died.”

None of them had thought about _that_ possibility. “Of course, you're right,” Athos answered.

D'Artagnan nodded. He had hoped to hear a little more beside the fact that he had caused Constance grief and pain, but he was also sad to hear their captain had only outlived them by a few months.

They shared a few more words until it was time for Tréville to head back to the office and embark on the press conference for a double murder.


	5. Bad Headache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The two looked at each other for a moment, and Athos could see a flicker of guilt and grief and understanding in his friend's eyes, before a light smile painted crinkles around the corners of the eyes. “Rebirth, it seems, comes with a price tag. A burden we'll have to bear. What did you tell him?”

Athos left the office early to meet with one of their oldest clients for a dinner discussion. He left with d'Artagnan and Constance, who had concert tickets for some band Athos had never heard of before. He envied the energy the two young people displayed; after another day spent mostly hunched in front of the computer, his eyes burned and the back of his neck creaked. He was looking forward to his couch, the remote control and a bottle of wine. Since Porthos and Aramis were still working when he left and would probably be for a while longer, he entertained the idea of going back to the office after dinner, but finally dismissed the thought. He was tired and both his colleagues would get along without him quite well anyway.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos' eyes were already drooping, only randomly following the late night news, when his doorbell rang. In the blink of an eye he was wide awake. He could think of only two people who would come by so late, he concluded after a hasty glance at the clock. Option one, Ninon, he dismissed quickly, because she usually only knocked a couple of times instead of using the doorbell, and from the sound of it it had been the outer doorbell anyway. Option two would be his ex-wife, heeding his advice to use the doorbell and not let herself in on her own. Even more unlikely, he diagnosed, and heaved himself from the couch. A look at the intercom's screen revealed no one standing outside on the street until Aramis' face slid into view, the younger man waving animatedly into the camera with a tell-tale grin. Athos pushed the button to let him in. He opened the door, waiting for Aramis to make his way up the stairs, then he moved aside to make way for him.

“I hope I'm not disturbing you?” Aramis asked uncertainly, hovering on the threshold. Gone was the waggishness from half a minute ago.

“Never. Come in,” Athos replied, giving his friend a warm smile. “Wine?” he asked, once Aramis had slumped down on the couch.

“Please.”

Turning off the TV on his way, Athos fetched a glass for Aramis and a new bottle of wine. When both glasses were filled, Athos took a seat in the armchair opposite the couch. He studied his friend for a moment. “Well, what brings you here?”

“Glum thoughts.”

“Autriche?”

Aramis shrugged nondescriptly, not a yes, not a no. “Louis...”

“Barking dogs never bite. Once, he had the power to decide between life and death, but not nowadays. Don't concern yourself with him, he's nothing but a pesky nuisance.”

Aramis sighed. “You're right, but it's bothering me that he shows up now when we've so many other problems on hand.”

“We should concentrate on finding Grimaud. In my eyes, he's the biggest threat at the moment. Tréville will handle the police investigations and I'm convinced any charges pressed by Autriche's lawyers will come to nothing, simply because there is nothing they can hold against you or Anne. Tréville will find the evidence to prove this. Any other charges like custody will be handled by Anne's lawyers.” Athos leaned back and stretched his legs, taking a sip. “My biggest concern is Grimaud; as long as I don't know what his plans for us are, I won't sleep easily. The way I see it, we can make Milady and Richelieu a minor priority and forget about Louis. Autriche's accusations and the counterproof will be dealt with by Tréville and his team, which leaves Grimaud the only real imponderable. In his case, I won't place reliance on the police, he's probably too clever for them.”

Aramis nodded and sighed. “I guess you're right. It's only that the re-appearance of Autriche ensued a lot of problems we wouldn't have had if he had had the decency to simply turn up as a corpse.”

Athos snorted. “Right. Or if Rochefort had left the abduction just two more days until the divorce had come through.” He sipped his wine. “Speaking of which, why aren't you home? Did Anne kick you and your bad mood out?”

Aramis shook his head, slowly swirling the red liquid in his glass. “Girls night out. She's with her friend and staying over.”

“With Henri?” Athos asked astonished.

Aramis nodded. “Hélène is Henri’s godmother and has three children. It's safe to assume they'll spend the evening in their pyjamas on the couch, sipping girl's drinks, giggling and chattering and the kids will have lemonade and popcorn and The Lion's King until they fall asleep.” Aramis' eyes grew distant, a fond smile playing around the corners of his mouth. “Well, not Henri, he'll be asleep by now, but I'm sure he’s had his share of the fun.”

Athos remembered the reluctance Aramis had been troubled by ever since the fatal training mission to Savoy, even though the marksman had never uttered a word about it. His sheer inability to be on his own for too long, especially if the night's shadows grew longer and longer, hadn't gone unnoticed by his fellow Musketeers; if not with a woman, then Aramis had always made sure that at least one of his friends kept him company until sleep's welcoming arms enveloped him and cradled him to sweet oblivion. And the Inseparables had slipped into the role without wasting any words on the matter, just as they had made sure Athos had always found his way home when he had been too drunk to remember on his own. With another Savoy incident haunting Aramis' soul in this lifetime, too, Athos deliberately changed the subject and didn't remark about the reason why Aramis was there. “I'm a little worried about d'Artagnan.”

Aramis helped himself to a second glass of red wine. “Yeah, something's weighing on his soul, he's going over problems I guess have nothing to do with the current situation. For all his obviously being in seventh heaven he looks unhappy.”

“You've observed it, too? Did you speak to him?”

“No, I thought he would turn to you with his problems. Hasn’t he?”

“Why did you automatically think...,” Athos trailed off, stunned. “Yes, he approached me this morning. He’s suffering from not knowing what became of Constance after the war. He's also worrying about what could happen to her if someone from the past approaches her and she has no idea whom she's dealing with. He thinks if he knows enough about her past he might be able to stir some memory. I share his concern for Constance's well-being, though I don't deem it wise trying to make her remember.”

Aramis nodded. “I think he feels guilty and dreads her reaction should she ever remember her past life.”

“Who would not?”

The two looked at each other for a moment, and Athos could see a flicker of guilt and grief and understanding in his friend's eyes, before a light smile painted crinkles around the corners of the eyes. “Rebirth, it seems, comes with a price tag. A burden we'll have to bear. What did you tell him?”

“I think it will help him if he knows about her past, even if I still don't think it would be a good idea trying to stir her memory. Anyway, we had a similar discussion months ago, and I had advised him to speak to Tréville. Which he hadn't done till today, obviously dreading what he might hear. I offered to accompany him and we spoke to Tréville this afternoon.”

Athos gave a short summary about their conversation with the former Minister of War and was relieved when he realized Aramis seemed to know about the attack on his son resulting in Tréville's death. At least he didn't interrupt Athos in his report and showed no sign of surprise on hearing about the attempted assassination of the young King and Tréville's death. When Athos had finished with his short account of the afternoon's conversation, he asked, “Do you think Anne would be willing to share such information?”

“Yes, of course!” Aramis played with the glass in his hands, avoiding the older man's gaze. “Anne and I haven't talked about, erm, well.... We haven't talked much about the past. It's...”

_Painful_ , Athos thought, waiting for the other to continue.

“If Tréville says Constance moved back to the palace, Anne certainly had an insight into her private life. I'm sure she will tell d'Artagnan what he wants to know, and in a cautious way. She.... we decided to let bygones be bygones and not open old wounds. It's better that way.” Finally, Aramis looked up. “Anne didn't want to talk about it, she said it'd be enough if I knew what could be read in the history books.” Aramis raked his fingers through his hair. “Maybe I’m acting like a coward, but I just can't stand to hear what she must've gone through. I was glad when she didn't want to talk about it.”

“No, you're not. None of us has ever asked Tréville how he lived on, and certainly not out of neglect but because we feared the answer.” Athos knew he did not speak only for himself. “Think of the discussions we had about d'Artagnan. Hearing his report was... hard. I could have lived without it.”

A quiet settled over the room while both mulled over what they had just talked about.

After a while, Athos raised his glass with a questioning look. Aramis nodded and Athos rose to get another bottle of wine. When he uncorked the bottle on the kitchen counter his eyes fell on the grocery bag he had put there earlier, after he had bought some essentials on his way home after dinner. “Have you eaten?” he shouted through the open door.

“Um, yes.”

The reply came too slowly and with a tell-tale pause in between. Athos grabbed the baguette and the paper bag marked with _Fromagerie Julienne_ and carried everything back to the living room. He made a detour to fetch a plate, salted butter and knife and placed everything in front of Aramis.

Aramis eyed the paper bag, then he looked up with a surprised smile. “Don't tell me there's Pélardon from Lozère in there.”

Athos nodded, a smile ghosting around the corners of his mouth.

“I knew it was the right decision to come here tonight,” Aramis said, already ripping open the paper.

Athos watched Aramis dig in for a while, before asking, “Do you have more information about Porthos and this mysterious woman?”

Aramis shook his head, swallowing. “No, but I'm planning to follow him soon to one of his trysts of love if he continues refusing to answer my questions.”

“Do you think it's Elodie? Or Alice? Anyone from our past?”

“I don't know,” Aramis answered after a moment contemplating the question, “but there's a fair chance it's either of them.” He finished the last piece of goat's cheese, swallowing it with a sip from his wine glass.

Athos nodded consent.

“And you?”

“Me?”

“I saw a piece of paper with a name scribbled on it attached to the doorbell next to yours. It reads Larroque. Is it the _Comtesse_ de Larroque? Is she living next door?”

Athos squinted at Aramis with puckered brows, honing the _comte_ stare to perfection.

Aramis smiled back delightedly.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos woke up around three o'clock from the noise of the toilet flushing. A moment later he heard suppressed cursing and what sounded like someone – namely Aramis – had tripped over something on his way back to the couch. Belatedly he realized the noise had not come from the living room but at closer range. Not yet through with his cognition, he felt the bed dip and said someone crawl under his duvet. The sigh he wanted to heave wouldn't come; instead, a contented smile formed on his face, but Athos was asleep again before he was even aware of it.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Here.” Athos placed a cup of coffee in front of Aramis. The latter was sitting with his head in his hands, looking miserable. 

“I feel miserable.”

“Not my fault.”

“I have a headache.”

“Not my fault. Stop whining.”

Aramis shot a nasty look in Athos' direction. “You snored all night.”

“Not my fault.”

“Would you stop gainsaying everything I say?”

Athos patted Aramis' shoulder. “Shut up, drink your coffee, and then I'll drive you home. You'll survive.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Athos!” D'Artagnan approached the older man as soon as he entered the office. “Here's the list of the technical stuff for the alarm system you asked for. I've put a few extras at the end, tell the client they should discuss these with their IT department, it's just a suggestion for an upgrade in their data security. If they have questions, they can call me.” 

Athos nodded and took the paper from the younger man. “It's a small law firm, I'm not even sure if they have an IT department at all, but I'll pass it on. Thanks.”

“Porthos is through with the patient lists, he checked for Anne Breuil, Milady, Winter and combinations of these names. It showed no results. Either she used a false name or she wasn't at any of these hospitals. There are three or four hospitals in greater London I can't get access to and maybe a handful of private clinics. Do you want to check other alias, too?”

“No, we already know she has regained her memory, it's of minor importance how or when.”

“Shall I continue with the police reports?”

Athos thought about the question for a moment. “It would be interesting to know if the memories were stirred because she met someone from the past. Like Grimaud, though I don't think these two ever met in the past. Maybe there are others who could pose a threat to us and John still hasn't sent me the client list I've asked him for. I'd say skim the information you have, but don't invest more than one or two hours on it. How far are you with the footage from Courville-sur-Eure?”

D'Artagnan sighed deeply. “Hours and hours and hours of endlessly stretching fields and abandoned farm roads and all there is are a few tractors turning up once in a while and people going for a stroll with their dogs. I'm slowly going back in time, but I fear there's not much footage left of the time more than six weeks prior to Autriche's rescue.”

“Okay, then go on with the footage and disregard the London files for now.”

“Erm, did you speak to Aramis? About Anne?”

“Yes, he said you're welcome to come by later in the afternoon or early evening. Speak to him when he's here.”

“Okay, thanks.” D'Artagnan lingered a moment longer as if he wanted to add something, but then returned to his room.

Athos suppressed a smile. He was sure he knew what d'Artagnan had on his mind but didn't dare ask.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Later in the day, a cry of such magnitude erupted from Aramis' room that Constance spilled her coffee and Charlène dragged her pen across half of the document in front of her, leaving an ugly blue line. Porthos, Athos and d'Artagnan burst from their rooms and arrived at Aramis' door almost simultaneously and before the echo had faded away. 

Aramis beamed at them. “I have it! I have a connection between Rochefort and Grimaud! It's on the footage d'Artagnan gave me yesterday!”

Porthos grabbed at his heart and wondered if he should let the stroke he would inevitably get one of these days claim his life then and there. It would very probably save him further trouble, especially in relation to Aramis, and everyone he would ever want to say his last good-bye to was present. However, with a glance at his friend's beaming face he dismissed that thought as fast as it had come. “Are you out of your mind?” he barked. “I thought you were about to peg out.”

Aramis' beaming smile dulled a tiny wee bit. “Sorry?” he offered innocently. He grabbed a sheet of paper, holding it out to Porthos. “Look, Grimaud and Rochefort spent a very short period of time together in a prison in Barcelona in 1997. Rochefort was moved on to Madrid after a few weeks. We already knew this, and we know from the papers they didn’t have contact with each other during their time there, that's what the prison's administration confirmed to the police.” Aramis busied himself with the papers on his desk, obviously searching for a certain document. When he didn't find what he was looking for, he continued, “Anyway, Rochefort served several years in prison while Grimaud was, erm, in custody awaiting trial. These prisoners are placed in different sections of the prison and not allowed to mingle with each other. You know, on one side the really bad guys, on the other those who are there for corporate fraud and these things, pretrial detention. Anyway, the jail administration claimed the two of them could never have had contact. Now look here.” Aramis turned his computer screen so the others could have a look at it.

“D'Artagnan was able to get hold of really old footage, I think usually it’s deleted after about a year, especially if there had been no incidents during that time. There,” Aramis pointed to the screen with his finger, lightly tapping the screen, “that’s Rochefort and Lucien Grimaud, and they are evidently in deep conversation. Here, there’s another picture where you can see how Rochefort passes something on to Grimaud. Grimaud is obviously slipping it into his shoe right away as you can see in this picture.” The next pictures showed their former counterparts, deep in conversation in a far corner of the jail’s recreation yard. There was no doubt they knew each other and had had contact. “The footage is not long, it’s from a camera I think slowly moved to film different parts, and from the eight cameras covering the yard, footage from six of them has already been deleted; at least d'Artagnan wasn't able to get hold of material of them. The footage from the other one covers another part of the yard. So, this is all we have. But it’s unmistakably. They knew each other, they talked to each other. We have something.”

The others inched closer, studying the picture on the screen.

“Good work,” Athos said. “I’m not sure this is enough to convince the police that Grimaud and Rochefort worked together on Autriche’s abduction, but it’s so much more than what we had before. Do we have the list of all inmates who served while Rochefort was imprisoned?”

Aramis nodded.

“We need a list of everyone who served time in prison with Grimaud as well. When was his trial and how long did he serve?”

“I'll have to check.” Aramis place his hand onto a huge stack of paper. “I'm not nearly halfway through the papers Tréville gave us, I started with the footage from d'Artagnan as soon has he had it.”

Athos nodded, “Go on with it, I'll let Tréville know what we have so far. Can you send him a copy of the footage?” Athos addressed d'Artagnan.

“I'll put everything on USB stick for him.”

“Good work,” Porthos said after d'Artagnan and Athos had left, taking a seat opposite Aramis. “I'm sure Tréville will be able to convince his fellow officers of the fact this is evidence enough to prove that Rochefort is responsible for the abduction. It may still be a little weak, but with Rochefort's background, his obsession with Anne and everything he did this summer it should be sufficient.”

“Let's hope it does. We'll just have to dig a little deeper, I'm sure we'll be able to unearth email correspondence or mutual friends who can confirm the two worked together.”

“We will, _mon ami_. We will,” Porthos said.

Aramis leaned back in his chair, arms crossed behind his head, smiling at Porthos. “I hope this racket is over soon now.”

“Shall I help you with these papers? Athos said we can neglect the London trace for the moment.”

“That'd be great. Here!” Aramis pushed over a smaller stack of paper. “I think that's all the police were able to provide on Grimaud's time in Spain.”

Porthos sat down in the chair and opened the first file.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Aramis said he's arranged to meet with you in half an hour at their place?” Athos asked from the doorway of d'Artagnan's office. 

D'Artagnan darted a glance at the tiny clock on the computer screen before looking up. “Yes. I'll walk, so I still have ten minutes before I'll have to leave. Do you need something?”

“No, I just wondered if you'd mind me accompanying you. I haven't seen Anne for a while and thought I could say hi.”

A smile spread on the young man's face. “Great! No, yes, I really wouldn't mind some company. Just give me a moment to save data and log off.”

Athos returned to his office to get his coat and mobile and then waited in the reception area until d'Artagnan emerged from his office.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Come in,” Aramis greeted them enthusiastically at the door. The times one or all of his friends had come by after he had moved in with Anne, had been few and far between, and Aramis still enjoyed showing off the spacious and lavishly furnished apartment he now shared with Anne. 

Anne came to greet them with Henri on her arm, the child dressed ready for bed. “I'll be with you in a minute, this little tiger is already terribly tired.” She walked off to the child's room while Aramis guided his friends to the living room.

Aramis handed out drinks and the men talked about the day's research results until Anne returned a quarter hour later. She snuggled up to Aramis on the couch.

“I'm afraid I can't tell you anything about her death, for she survived me. She came to see me on my deathbed, and stayed until the end. Constance had been a good friend and my closest adviser until the day she decided to leave the palace and built herself a new life outside of Paris. Well, she stayed a true friend until the very end. But I have no idea how old she was when she died or how. I'd like to think she died of old age, surrounded by her family.”

The men silently wondered what family Anne might be speaking of, for they knew of no noteworthy close family after Bonacieux had died and Constance and d'Artagnan had married. There had been no close relatives left on each side, besides the few old and distantly related uncles or aunts that had certainly not lived long enough to see Constance ageing. D'Artagnan and Constance's true chosen family had died the day the Inseparables had lost their lives on the battlefield.

Anne carried on, unaware of the irritation her statement caused. “I'm sorry, d'Artagnan, I can hardly tell you more than Tréville has told you. She was devastated after she received the news of your death, as we all were.” A sideways glance at Aramis indicated who she was thinking of at that moment. “But she had always been such a strong and determined woman, she faced destiny with the same determination and courage she'd faced any challenges. When she moved back to the palace I was glad to have her around, to have her support during my regency which was not always easy, to have a steadfast friend at my side. But I also understood and supported her when she finally decided to leave the palace. Her son had moved out the year before and she had always....,” Anne trailed off, taking in the sudden change in the men's posture, their reaction to her words.

“She had a son?” d'Artagnan asked quietly, disbelievingly. “She married again? I didn't know that! Whom?”

Now it was Anne who looked confused until comprehension dawned on her. “Oh no,” she whispered. “I thought you knew. I thought ---. Didn't Tréville speak of it? I thought you spoke with him!”

“No,” Athos replied through gritted teeth. “Tréville said nothing about Constance having married again.”

Anne looked even more confused. She turned to glance at Aramis, and then back to d'Artagnan, blinking rapidly. “No, that's not---I mean--- Constance never married again. I thought you knew,” Anne breathed, intensely staring at d'Artagnan. “I'm speaking of your son. It was... I thought she had told you... I presumed she had sent you a letter to the front, or... though... she never spoke of it. Oh my God! _I thought you knew!_ It was your son, d'Artagnan, Constance never married again.”

It was like a slap to the face, not only for d'Artagnan. The young man rose from his chair and stumbled back as if literally having been hit, staring wide-eyed at Anne. “No,” he breathed, shaking his head.

Aramis gripped Anne's arm, his eyes following the Gascon's every move.

Athos stared at Anne, the shock of what she had just revealed openly visible in his usually carefully kept countenance.

D'Artagnan gripped the dining table and slowly sank down on one of the chairs. He remembered his last night with Constance. He had been sent back to Paris to deliver vital information to the palace and bring back new orders and fresh recruits to the front. He had stayed in Paris for only two nights and been busy most of the time organising the transportation of recruits and material to the front, plus waiting at the palace for new orders. But the nights he had been able to share with his wife. At that time, he had not thought it would be the last time he would ever be with her. Nor had he thought about the possibility he would father a child. D'Artagnan covered his face with his hands, groaning.

“I'm so sorry,” Anne whispered. “I didn't know.”

Athos rose and stalked over to d'Artagnan. He hesitated a moment before gripping the young man's shoulder. No words of comfort would come, and so he squeezed the trembling shoulder hoping it was, for now, at least some solace. _Neither did I see the child grow up nor the young King rule France._ Tréville had not spoken solely of little Louis, Athos realized; Tréville had regretted neither seeing d'Artagnan's child grow up nor seeing the young King grow into his reign. Tréville, too, had assumed they would know of d'Artagnan's fatherhood.

“She wouldn't have,” Aramis said into the quietness, as softly and gently as he managed. “This is nothing you'd share over a letter, and certainly not Constance. She would never have sent such a letter, not when she knew d'Artagnan would need his wit to survive war's madness. I'm so sorry, d'Artagnan.” His voice failed. Helplessly he looked at Athos.

What they had hoped would help putting d'Artagnan's mind at ease had the opposite effect and broken his heart, plunging the young man into an abyss of darkness and anguish.


	6. Beyond Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Athos said, “If Constance really died of old age, she may never regain her memories until the day she dies. All our memories have been stirred by wounds and injuries inflicted on us that had led to our death in the 17th century.” His gaze flickered to Anne. “Or ailments, which have returned. If Constance passed away in her sleep or at a great age, this might indicate that it will be a very long time until she remembers her old life. Maybe never.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Birthday, Santiago! :-D
> 
> **** 
> 
> Dimanche prochain, bonne chance, France! L'espoir est on marche.

A few minutes of utter silence followed the revelation, disturbed only by d'Artagnan's laboured breathing. Finally, he let his hands sink and raised his head, staring at Anne with glassy eyes. 

“Tell me more.” It was barely more than a whisper, yet the words rang through the room as deafeningly as if they had been shouted.

“Constance named him after you and your father. Charles Alexandre. Charles and Louis became close friends during their time together at the palace, despite their age difference.” Anne gazed at Athos, seeking advice whether she should continue or not.

Athos inclined his head slightly.

Anne grabbed Aramis' hand, squeezing it tightly. What she was about to say was new for him, too. “When I lay on my deathbed, Charles accompanied his mother to the convent where I had spent my last years. He had grown into a dashing young man, and he reminded me so much of you, for a moment I confused him with you.” Anne's eyes shimmered with unshed tears, recalling the old times. “For a short moment, I thought my loyal Musketeers were back with me, that you all had come to bid me farewell, one last time, even though I knew---” Anne broke off to take a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm her shaky voice. “Charles was in uniform. I knew Constance had hoped he would not choose a soldier's life, but when she stood by his side I could see how proud she was. Charles had joined the Musketeer regiment, and I knew he would watch over my son's life with the same loyalty and courage you all had before.”

“They never lacked anything, I saw to it personally, even after Constance had left Paris. I think, when she looked at your son, she saw you, and it was consolation and comfort to her. She grieved your death, but she had a son to look after, and for him she remained strong. He commemorated your life, d'Artagnan. And he grew up with the stories Brujon told him about his valiant and honorable father whenever Brujon was at the palace. Or later, when he accompanied Constance to the Garrison. Young Charles grew up with the stories about your courage and greatness, and Brujon told him all the magic tales about the Inseparables. Your son knew you well."

“Brujon? He survived?” asked Athos.

“Yes, he came back after the war. Soon he was a role model for new recruits and only a few years later he followed in the steps of Tréville and you, Athos, and was appointed Captain of the Musketeer's regiment. He never tired, in all the years, of relating the tales about the Inseparables' courage, daredevilry and greatness, and it was not only d'Artagnan's son who listened with bated breath.” She smiled reminiscing the stories that had been told about the Musketeers.

A weak smile formed on d'Artagnan's face. “I'm glad Constance was not alone, but I wish I had seen my son, only once.” He swallowed, “It's not good if a son has to grow up without his father.”

Athos and Aramis shared concerned glances. This was not what they had hoped to hear tonight. It only added to all the distress d'Artagnan already felt ever since he had remembered his old life. But there was nothing they could do.

Anne rose and walked over to d'Artagnan, crouching down in front of him. “I'm so sorry, d'Artagnan, but you must let bygones be bygones. You and Constance have found each other again, here, in this new life. Don't mourn what you could not have. I regret you never had the chance to meet your son, but I'm convinced you will have the chance soon in this life. Constance had a contented life and I know she never regretted marrying you; she would never have chosen another life. Your son was your legacy to her.”

D'Artagnan nodded. “Thank you.” Then his expression changed and he twisted in his seat, grabbing Athos' hand on his shoulder. “She must never remember! Oh God, Constance must never know of her old life!” With wide-blown eyes he stared at Athos.

Athos said, “If Constance really died of old age, she may never regain her memories until the day she dies. All our memories have been stirred by wounds and injuries inflicted on us that had led to our death in the 17th century.” His gaze flickered to Anne. “Or ailments, which have returned. If Constance passed away in her sleep or at a great age, this might indicate that it will be a very long time until she remembers her old life. Maybe never.” He squeezed d'Artagnan's shoulder once more. “We will do everything in our power to keep any danger from her. I promise you, d'Artagnan, we'll try to keep every harm from her that might stir memories.”

D'Artagnan gazed at Athos for a moment, seeing in the other's eyes the determination and fondness underlining the declaration. Mollified, he nodded in thanks.

“It's a promise we're all bound by,” Aramis said, “Porthos and Tréville, too. I'll see to that. She won't have to suffer twice what she's been through before.”

And so, tacitly, a pact was made that from all those who had found their way from the 17th century to this new life, friend or foe, Constance would be the only one who should never have to remember.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next day, Aramis strolled into Porthos' office. “Are you busy?” 

“Naw, just going through a few lists d'Artagnan gave me.”

Aramis closed the door and walked over to the window, gazing outside. “D'Artagnan came by to speak to Anne yesterday evening.”

Porthos had his eyes still glued to the screen, responding without looking up. “Yeah, I know, Athos mentioned it.”

“He had a son. Constance was pregnant when we fell at Rocroi.”

Porthos looked up stunned, staring at Aramis' back. “What? He never said a word. I mean, did he know? Back then?”

Aramis shook his head, still with his back to Porthos. “No, he didn't. He learned of it only yesterday.”

“That's... hard. How did he react? How did he take it?”

“What do you think?” Aramis sighed, finally turning around. “He didn't take kindly to it, but I think he'll get over it. Athos took him home to his apartment afterwards. I hope they talked about it. Athos is quite good with such things, although you might not expect it of him.”

“I'm really sorry to hear this, it must have been a shock. Then I guess it's better if Constance never remembers.”

“That's what we all agreed on. There's a good chance of it, too, since Anne told us Constance outlived her and she had hoped Constance would have died of old age. If this is true, then her memory might never be stirred in this life.” Aramis came back to the desk and slumped down in the chair opposite Porthos. “At least, not if we can prevent it. We promised the pup to do everything within our power to see to it.” He eyed his friend.

Porthos nodded grimly. “Aye, that’s the least we can do for him.”

Aramis sighed, slowly exhaling.

“Hard evening, eh?”

Aramis nodded. “Could have been more cheerful. Which reminds me, how was your evening?”

“Mine?” An expression of cautious attentiveness appeared on the bigger man's face.

Aramis smirked. “Didn't you go to see your girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” Porthos blinked.

“Come on, Porthos. Don't take me for an idiot. I know you better than you know yourself. Is it Elodie? Alice? When will you introduce us?”

“Erm.”

“The truth, Porthos, if you please. I saw you three nights ago when you said you were allegedly dating your supposed girlfriend. I saw you sitting at the metro station and I watched long enough to see you let three trains pass. And there was no woman in sight and you didn't look like you would expect someone to meet you there. What are you hiding?”

Porthos was speechless, but managed to press out words nonetheless. “Are you observing me?” he growled.

“No, I just happened to leave the train on the other platform and saw you, remembering you had said earlier you had a date. I was curious and hoped to see your girlfriend, instead I watched a sad-looking Porthos sit at the metro station for over fifteen minutes.” After a short pause, he added quietly, “Don't you want to talk to me?”

Porthos silently gazed at Aramis for a short while, then he virtually slumped in his seat, starting to speak. “I haven’t dared address her yet. She works at the _Garage Saint Georges_ on the Avenue Secrétan where I saw her when I traced Madame Pelletier's errant husband. He had to –” Porthos was cut off by Aramis' hearty laughter. “What?”

“She's a car mechanic?” Aramis was pretty sure he knew now whom Porthos was talking about.

“Yes, why not? Anyway, I've been watching her since then sometimes. I don't think she has a boyfriend or something, she goes home after work and hardly ever goes out. And there's no one coming to visit her and I don't think she's living with someone, though I can't be sure about it, only because I've never seen anyone leaving in the morning, although doesn't mean she isn't with someone. Not that I'm standing there every morning to observe the comings and goings, or in the evenings, but I sometimes wait for her at the metro station. Erm, frequently. But I've never exchanged a word with her.” The words literally bubbled out of Porthos, strung together without much sense.

But Aramis understood his friend's chatter. “Who exactly are you talking about?”

“Elodie.”

“Thought so. Why are you not talking to her?”

Porthos stared at Aramis as if he had just made the world's most stupid suggestion ever. “What if she doesn't remember me? What if she doesn't want to get to know me? Or worse, what if she _does_ remember?”

“Who says if she doesn't remember she wouldn’t be interested in you? Granted, you're not me, but you're still a fine specimen of a man. And if she already remembers, wouldn't that be great? Isn't it what you'd want? To get back with her?”

“Aramis, I left Paris the day she arrived there. We hardly knew each other. And I'm not sure she felt the same.”

“Even a blind man could see the sparks flying between you two when we were in their forest shelter near Eparcy. Besides, you literally talked of nothing else than proposing to her once the war was over.”

“Yeah, and then we died and I never returned. It's not what I had in mind, you know.”

“You're a coward.”

“Come again?”

“Porthos, the worst thing that could happen is that she remembers and smacks you for never coming back. Then you can apologize and start over again with her. If so, I can tell you a few tricks about how to smooth-talk a lady. In no time at all she'll... ahh, well, you know, fall for you.” Aramis beamed at Porthos. “At best, she won’t remember and will fall for you instantly anyway. You've nothing to lose.”

Porthos rubbed his brow. “Maybe you're right, I just hadn't the guts so far to face her. Face to face, I mean.”

“Coward.”

Porthos growled.

“How long have you been following her?”

“I've _not_ been following her. After I saw her working in the garage I've been waiting here and there where I knew she would pass by on her way home.”

“And always hidden so she would not have the tiniest chance of seeing you, I presume? No chance encounters?”

“Erm, no.”

Aramis sighed deeply. “You're a lost case, Porthos, but rest assured, with me at your side you'll handle this. _We_ will handle this. Just trust me.”

“Don't you dare start meddling.” Porthos replied, staring at Aramis. Squinting at his friend, he added, “Ok. Thursday nights she usually has an after work drink with her colleagues in a bar around the corner. I'll be there to try to speak to her. If she doesn't want to talk to me, I'll come by your place and you'll have to cheer me up all night.” He grinned.

A rap on the door interrupted their conversation and d'Artagnan's cheerful face appeared in the door. “ _Bonjour, messieurs_ , I hope you're well!”

“ _Salut_ , pup,” Porthos answered.

Aramis, with a more dimmed smile than Porthos, nodded a greeting, “ _Ça va_?”

“Fine,” d'Artagnan smiled back, turning to Porthos. “Athos says we can defer working on the London material for the time being, unless you've time to see those papers through. It's not of immediate importance any more.”

Porthos nodded his consent, eyeing his screen. “I'll finish with what I have open here and then proceed with something else.”

“Gotta go, I'm downloading some sensitive material.”

“Does sensitive include illegal?” Porthos called after the retreating young man, but d'Artagnan only grinned before closing the door.

“Well, the pup looked pretty cheerful. Did he stay the night at Athos' place?”

Aramis shrugged his shoulders, which could mean anything from yes, to no, to I don't know. “It seems Athos found the right words to put his mind at ease. I'm glad of it.”

“Who'd have thought? But then, Athos was always good at serious talk, what with all his brooding and introversion.”

“He's seeing Ninon.”

“Who, d'Artagnan?” Porthos sputtered.

Aramis rolled his eyes. “Athos. They're living on the same floor, she moved in a while ago. He did not say a word, didn't he?”

“No way, are you serious? You're speaking of the _Comtesse_ de Larroque?”

“The very same, though she's no comtesse nowadays and has not a clue who she was or who Athos is. I venture to guess Athos is smitten.” Aramis smirked.

A booming laugh erupted from deep within Porthos, resounding in the small office. Wiping tears from his face, he said, “I'm sure _that_ is a choice of wording our fearless leader would never choose.”

“Choose what?” came the question from the door. Athos leaned against the door frame. “Your spirits are high this morning, I see. What were you saying about your vindictive leader?”

Porthos grinned at Athos. “Nothing, really. I merely hinted at Aramis that your choice of words is so much more sophisticated than Aramis' linguistic usage.”

Aramis rose. “You spoke to d'Artagnan, I presume? He's in a cheerful mood, or is he fooling us?”

“No. We talked a lot and I guess it helped. He felt a lot better this morning.”

Aramis patted Athos' shoulder on his way out. “Well done, my friend, thanks,” he murmured and proceeded to his room.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Is Aramis in?” Tréville asked by way of greeting, already rushing by Constance’s desk to Aramis’ office. 

“Yes,” Constance replied, but Tréville had already opened the door without knocking.

Aramis, currently speaking on the phone, looked up in surprise, signaling to Tréville he needed a couple of minutes more. However, when he saw the expression on his former captain’s face, he hurried to end the call, finally replacing the receiver after promising to call back as soon as possible. “How can I help you? What—“ Aramis was cut off.

“Is this your handwriting?” Tréville slapped down a paper in front of Aramis, emphasizing his question by pounding his flat hand once more on the paper.

Aramis looked at Tréville, and then to the paper. “Yes, it’s one of my notes. Why?”

“You wrote this down?”

“Yes.”

“So this paper, the original, not the copy here, will have your fingerprints on it? Yes?”

Aramis was confused, he couldn’t follow Tréville’s questioning. “Yes, of course, I took these notes when Anne first came here to seek help.” Just to be on the safe side, Aramis studied the copy more closely. It was a paper from the notepad he had used when he had talked to Anne on said first day when she had come to the office. It was trivial scribbling, most of what he had written down had been for the sake of his sanity, when he had tried to pretend he was listening intently to what she told him while his mind had been in turmoil. Nothing of what he had written down that day had had any relevance to him; Athos had noted all relevant facts later when Porthos and Athos had joined the meeting. He looked up again. “What about it?”

Tréville glowered at Aramis for a good half minute, then he sighed audibly and slumped into the chair in front of the desk. “That’s more severe than I thought.”

“What?” Athos asked. He had heard Tréville’s raised voice through his open door and walked over to inquire what was going on. “What is severe?”

“This.” Tréville pointed to the paper on Aramis’ desk.

“I don’t understand,” Aramis said, looking to and fro between Athos and Tréville with a baffled frown on his face. “What’s the problem?”

“This paper, the original of this copy, was found at the farmhouse where Monsieur Autriche was kept hostage. It doesn’t explicitly have your name on it, but the firm’s name is printed on top as you can see, so it's safe to assume it was you who took these notes since every handwriting expert will confirm this is your handwriting. Even I recognized it immediately and you just confirmed it’s yours. Plus, it has your fingerprints on it. Now, what do you think the police will make of this?” Tréville's gaze switched from Aramis to Athos. “A piece of paper where Aramis wrote down information about how, when and where Monsieur Autriche spent the last few days before his abduction. It even contains the address and gives insight into his daily routine with exact dates and times on it. Now, try to convince me Aramis had nothing to do with the abduction.” Tréville suddenly looked very tired.

“What? But...” Aramis trailed off.

“Aramis?” Athos asked, looking at his friend. When Aramis failed to answer, he tried again. “Aramis? What does this mean? How could this turn up at the farmhouse?”

Aramis looked up and shrugged. “I've no idea! This was the information I wrote down when Anne came to engage us in the search for her husband. It’s simply gathering first information, no more, no less. Name, address, time of disappearance etc. What we usually write down.” Aramis studied the paper again. “I just scribbled a few things to create the impression I was listening to Anne, that I was not freaking out about the fact she had just turned up, asking me of all people to search for her husband! I couldn’t even remember what I had written.” Aramis’ eyes roamed over the paper. Besides the few stickmen, circles and one stylized fleur-de-lis he had drawn, there was not much on the paper. The name of Anne’s husband. His address and the firm’s address. The date of the last time Anne had talked to him – which was most likely the date of his abduction. A few times of day which repeated, like the time of day he usually left in the morning to go to work. “I can't even remember what I did with it after Anne left.” Aramis looked at Athos again. “You noted everything of importance for the case, remember? I never again looked at this later.”

“Do you know how this looks like? To a police officer?” Tréville asked.

Athos scanned the text. He knew what information it held for him as investigator. He dreaded to hear what this paper would provide for a police officer in an ongoing investigation.

“For me, as a police officer working on an investigation, this paper suggests someone has written down information about a possible victim. There’s nothing on it suggesting this is information for a new case. No client name, no client number, no contract details, no date and time of the alleged client meeting, so no one can say if this was written down three weeks after the victim’s disappearance, or possibly three days before. It has applicable, matching fingerprints, distinct handwriting, every vital information one would need to abduct a man on his way home and it was found at the place the victim had been held captive. And to add the final touch, it belongs to one of the current main suspects. Tell me, Aramis, what should I do with this?” Tréville had talked himself into rage, his raised voice ringing through the room again.

Aramis remained quiet, but Athos spoke after a moment, sharply and in a dangerously calm voice. “You don’t believe he has anything to do with it, do you?”

Tréville rubbed a hand over his face before slowly looking up. “Of course not! I know he hasn’t, but this is evidence directly connecting him with the crime. It will be hard to convince anyone of the contrary. That's just what Autriche's lawyers were waiting for! How on earth could this turn up in Friaize?”

Aramis shrugged again, his hands fiddling with a rubber band. “I've no idea. I can't recall that I ever looked at it again after Anne had left.” He furrowed his brow, trying to remember when and where he had last seen his note, but he came up blank.

“Your notes, do you take them home with you? Leave them in the office? Who else has access to these rooms? Cleaning ladies, the owner?”

Athos answered, “The four of us have keys, as well as Charlène. A cleaning lady comes four times a week, usually late in the evening, sometimes early in the morning. It's a cleaning company, so it's not always the same person who comes. And we have hired a firm to collect the confidential waste once a month. They take it for shredding and disposal.”

The three men stared at each other, comprehension dawning on them.

“Where do you collect the documents which need to go to the shredder?” asked Tréville.

“We have a locked container in the copy room, and the company exchanges the container for a new one when they collect it. Charlène has a key for it, but I don't think she gets a new key for each new box, so I presume the containers all have the same lock. But I'll have to ask her, I'm not really sure about the procedure.”

“It would have been easy for Rochefort to bribe one of the workmen to let him have a look in your container, or throw the contents of your container into a bin bag instead of the shredder. Rochefort would have had all the time in the world to go through all your documents and pick the ones he could make use of.”

“I'm not sure what I did with the note. Maybe I just left it there in the conference room and the cleaning lady put it away. Or I filed it somewhere.”

“The fact is someone delivered the piece of paper to Rochefort,” Tréville said with a desperation in his voice that made the other two men cringe. “In the end, it doesn't matter how he came into possession of it; he was able to place evidence against you at the site of crime.”

“It could have been Grimaud himself who stole it and put it there only a few weeks ago,” Athos growled bitterly. ”It's not important who did it and how, what's done is done. It's a catastrophe!” He stared at Aramis, knitting his brows. “This is really, really bad.”

Tréville looked at Aramis with an expression that was hard to read. Athos thought it almost looked like pity, or desperation; an expression Athos couldn't recall ever seeing before on their captain's face. “I'm sorry, Aramis, but there's nothing I can do for you at the moment.”

“Where?” asked Athos. “Where was it found?”

“It had slipped behind a cupboard and was filed with every bit of evidence the police seized in and around the farmhouse. I only came across it this morning.”

For a few minutes, no one spoke, everyone dwelt on his thoughts until Tréville broke the silence.

“My hands are bound, I'm not the responsible inspector in this case, I'm merely assigned to support the 6th _arrondissement's_ police department. Decisions are not mine and I fear Inspector Moreau and I have already fallen out over this case, so his sympathy towards what I suggest is virtually zero. Furthermore, I'm under the impression he's more and more inclined to believe what Monsieur Autriche is whispering into his ear.”

“What do you mean by this? Is he corrupt?” Athos asked, his voice hovering between astonishment and anger.

“That I didn't say, but Monsieur Autriche can be very convincing if he's set his mind on something, especially if he finds someone who's willing to hear out what he has to say. Don't forget, from the beginning we had no evidence that what he claims isn't true. His word stands against what Anne and Aramis say.”

“It's ridiculous,” Athos replied. “The fact that the police are even investigating into this direction tells me a lot about police work. Sorry, Captain, but there's not the slightest hint of a motive for either Anne or Aramis. That is so evident, even the police should see it. No matter what Autriche claims.”

Aramis had gone suspiciously quiet in the meantime, but neither Tréville nor Athos were aware of it.

“Sadly, the police have no information on the ties that bind you, me, Anne, Rochefort, and Grimaud, together. They know nothing of the life we shared, the connections we had in old times. They have no insight into why Rochefort hates you all so much. Without this knowledge, watching this all from the sidelines, Autriche’s claims make a lot of sense. Believe me, even if there are a lot of unresolved issues in Autriche's statement. I'm telling you this as a police officer, mind you, not as--” Tréville stopped mid-sentence when the door swung open.

Charlène slipped into the office without having knocked first, hurriedly closing the door behind her. “Two police officers are here, they have an arrest warrant. They're here to arrest Aramis,” she whispered. Looking at Tréville, she added, “It's certainly a mistake, isn't it?”

Tréville's gaze turned towards the ceiling, closing his eyes he took a deep breath. Then he looked at Aramis who had blanched the moment Charlène started speaking. “I'm sorry, but I advise you to go with them without putting up a fight. In the current situation, the odds are against you.”

“You'll simply let them arrest Aramis?” Athos asked, anger flaring up. “Because someone set him up and they found a paper anyone could have stolen? Do they really believe Aramis would be so stupid as to leave an evidence as obvious as this at the scene of crime if he was involved?”

Tréville rose. “No, I don't believe this. But it's not important what I believe. This is evidence not even the most dim-witted police officer could neglect. With this paper here, Aramis soared from alleged suspect to the top of the main suspects list. No police officer in the world would act in any other way. Even _I_ would be obliged to arrest him, if I was in charge, no matter if I believed him guilty or not. Sadly, as it is, I'm expecting to be excluded from the case on grounds of bias. Neither Monsieur Autriche nor Inspector Moreau will miss grabbing this chance.” He ran a hand over his face.

Before anyone could say more, there was a rap on the door and it was pushed open, revealing two police officers. “Commissioner,” one of them greeted, slightly surprised, nodding, obviously recognizing Tréville. “Monsieur René Espaloungue?” He looked between Athos and Aramis, his eyes finally settling on the latter.

“That's me,” Aramis confirmed.


	7. Bleak Prospects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Take care of her and Henri. Bring them to safety, I don't know what Autriche plans next. Please, Athos, promise me you'll keep them safe.” He looked at Athos with an expression of great anxiety.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's just a short chapter, but I was in the mood for posting a mid-week chapter to lessen the tension about what's happening with Aramis. ROFL
> 
> Also, in the next chapter, there's a lot Tréville will have to answer for. :-)

“I'm going to have to ask you to accompany us to the police station. We have an arrest warrant. You are accused of planning and carrying out kidnapping, criminal assault and attempted murder.” The police officer rattled down the charges, awkwardly glancing at Tréville occasionally.

“You've got it all wrong,” Aramis replied, turning towards Athos. “Would you tell Anne what happened? Please ask her to call her lawyer. Tell her she doesn't have to worry.” He rounded his desk while speaking, coming to a halt beside Athos. Grabbing his arm with a firm grip, he said quietly, inaudibly to anyone else, “Take care of her and Henri. Bring them to safety, I don't know what Autriche plans next. Please, Athos, promise me you'll keep them safe.” He looked at Athos with an expression of great anxiety.

“Don't worry, you can rely on me.” Athos squeezed Aramis' shoulder and they looked at each other for a short moment, a silent conversation going on between the two.

Tréville harrumphed. “I'll accompany you,” he said, addressing the police officers. “Let's go.”

The officer who had remained silent so far, produced handcuffs, holding them out to Aramis.

“That won't be necessary!” Tréville barked, a shade of red crawling up his neck. “Put them away.”

“Sorry, sir, we've got our instructions,” the officer replied, a tad less brisk than his colleague.

“Go on,” the first police officer said and added, towards Tréville, “We have explicit instructions to arrest the suspect with the greatest caution, and this includes handcuffs. He's classified as dangerous. We've been informed he's a title winning sports marksman and coincidentally the one who shot the man he now claims to be responsible for Monsieur Autriche's abduction.”

This statement and the implication of it left the former Musketeers speechless for a moment.

“You're making a big mistake,” Athos uttered in a frighteningly calm voice, the knifing chill of his tone carrying a subtle threat.

Into the quiet following Athos' words they could hear the handcuffs snap closed. Aramis was escorted to the door, the officers walking either side of him, each of them having an iron grip on his arm. Tréville followed and Athos brought up the rear while Charlène remained behind with a troubled expression.

Two or three steps before they reached the entrance, the door opened and Porthos walked in, almost colliding with Aramis. He recoiled, stepping back and taking in the men in front of him. “Wha--?” He looked at Aramis, eyed the police officers, took in Tréville behind the three as well as the expression on Athos' face, until finally his eyes came to rest on the handcuffs holding Aramis' hands together in front of him. “What's that supposed to mean?” he growled.

“Athos will fill you in,” Aramis replied softly.

“Monsieur, please step aside,” one of the officers said, trying to shove Porthos aside.

“Whoa, get your hands off me! No one is going anywhere before I know what's going on. Captain?” Porthos asked, his eyes seeking Tréville. He crossed his arms, blocking the door.

“Monsieur, step aside. Now!”

“Porthos, it's okay. Let us through,” Aramis urged, knowing what the big man was capable of when confronted with injustice, or threat, directed at his friends. There was many a men, then and now, who could contribute their mite about Porthos' wrath if irked.

“No, nothing's okay!” Porthos snarled, glowering at Aramis. He didn't back down. 

“Porthos. Step aside,” Tréville said evenly, his voice carrying enough authority to easily get across the order the Regiment's Captain was giving one of his Musketeers.

Eyeing his friend for a moment, Porthos was undecided. Finally, he obeyed and stepped aside, giving way to the police officers.

Throwing dark looks at Porthos, the officers pushed Aramis through the door and made their way downstairs.

Porthos watched the men leaving with Aramis until they had vanished from sight, then he turned to Athos with a stony, questioning look.

“It's worse,” Athos said with a tiredness in his voice that made Porthos cringe.

“What happened? Why did the police arrest Aramis? Why didn't you stop them? Is Tréville responsible for his arrest?” Porthos' voice, right now, held potential to frighten not only little children.

Athos took a step back. He eyed his friend cautiously. “It seems evidence has turned up in Friaize tying Aramis to the crime scene.”

“Evidence?”

“A paper. With Aramis' notes. It has his fingerprints, his handwriting, his jottings. And Aramis confirmed it's his. He's been set up, that's for sure, but what counts for the police is that the evidence matches their now main suspect.” 

“Main suspect?”

“Aramis, evidently.” They had talked about it over and over again and knew Aramis and Anne were still the police's main focus. Why Porthos acted now as if he was hearing this for the first time was a mystery to Athos.

“Why didn't Tréville stop them?”

“Because he can't. It's proof, Porthos! They have tangible results even Tréville can't spirit away! It might lead to the exclusion of Tréville from this case based on grounds of bias. It's a bloody mess and we can't do anything!” Athos started striding towards his office, struggling to keep his countenance and a calm voice. “Grimaud is showing us up! Or it was Rochefort, or Autriche. I can't believe one of them managed to place a red herring the police is taken in by!” He could hardly suppress his anger any more, unconsciously flexing his fingers to keep his hands from hitting something. 

“And what do we do now?”

“First of all, I'll have to tell Anne. She needs to send their lawyer. Then we have to discuss how we can get Aramis out of this mess as fast as possible. If Grimaud is behind this, Aramis is in great danger.”

“Then I don't understand why you let them walk away with Aramis,” Porthos muttered.

Athos darted an angry glance at the bigger man.

“I simply can't believe they have evidence on him.”

“Come,” Athos said, urging Porthos to follow him inside his office. “We need to work out a plan. Do you know where d'Artagnan is?”

Porthos shook his head and closed the door.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis hadn't had any idea how exhausting an interrogation could be. 

Again and again and again the officers had asked the same questions, waiting for him to contradict himself, to let something slip, to make even the tiniest change in his statement. And after a few hours, it had finally happened. He had made a reference to Rochefort's obsession with Anne that had come from another time. 

When he had tried to explain why he believed Rochefort to be obsessed with Anne, leading to the abduction of her husband, Aramis had not been able to come up with an explanation why he would have such insight into a man's life Aramis claimed to have never met before the events of this year's summer. He had started to flounder, and the officers had started to nail him down on things he had said earlier. 

Anne's lawyer had sat beside him like a watch dog on guard, a solid presence all the time, blocking a lot of questions and stopping him in time when he was about to say something he was not obliged to. But even his lawyer had had problems smoothing over what Aramis had accidentally come out with. 

Finally, the solicitor had told him to stop talking to the police, and after another half hour listening to their questions without saying one word, he had been led away from the interrogation room and into the cell he would occupy for at least the next 72 hours. With the new anti-terror regulations in France, he knew they could hold him without charges and without arraignment for up to three days, and he was convinced they would make use of every single hour and not let him go one minute earlier. 

He lay on the uncomfortable metal plank bed and stared at the ceiling, wondering what Anne and Henri were doing. He realised how close this was to the situation back then and pondered if for them, history would always repeat itself. If need be, he would bargain with God again to make this end well. His only concern was for the well-being of those he loved most.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“I don't understand,” d'Artagnan said for the third time. 

Athos sighed, feeling a headache crawling up slowly from his stiff neck muscles. He refrained from pinching the bridge of his nose again.

“Why didn't Tréville stop them? He knows Aramis has nothing to do with it.”

Athos glanced at Porthos, the bigger man shrugging his shoulders helplessly with an apologizing expression. “I told you why. Just because we know Aramis has nothing to do with it doesn't make it true for others. They have first hand evidence and the conditions, for the time being, are against us. Tréville can do nothing other than abide by the police regulations.”

“I know. But Tréville has more insight into everything relating to Rochefort than any other police officer working on this case. Why didn't he..., I mean, he could have vouched for Aramis, right? He's in a high position, couldn't he just have ordered them to not arrest Aramis?”

“No, and it would've only made things worse, giving Autriche further fodder for his charges. Tréville acted cautiously by not interfering. As it is, he already risked much when he informed us about the evidence before the officers showed up here.”

Porthos strolled over and slumped down in the chair beside d'Artagnan. “So, what do we do next?”

Athos rubbed his eyes. He was tired and exhausted, but he knew he would certainly not get much sleep tonight. “Anne's lawyer is with Aramis at the police station. He promised to call me with news. What we need to do is find proof that Aramis is _not_ involved in anything. I've no idea how or where to find this evidence, I only know we _have_ to find it. Now.” He waggled his mouse to wake up his computer. “D'Artagnan, carry on with the footage from Courville-sur-Eure. How much do you still have to sift through?”

“I'm through with about half of what I have, but I'm still downloading material, so there's still more coming in,” the young man replied. “I could ask Constance to help me with it.”

Athos pondered the suggestion for a moment. “She doesn’t know what Rochefort or Grimaud look like. What if she doesn't recognize them?”

“No, what I meant was to ask her to sift through the footage. Whenever she spots something or someone she can give me a shout and I can check it. I already told you there are hours of material with no one showing up on the screen. Every car or tractor or human being she spots she has to report to me. That way we can double our efforts on screening the material.”

“Good idea. Go on then, but she doesn’t have to work overtime, tell her,” Athos added with a glance at his watch, knowing full well Constance would not leave without d'Artagnan. Turning to Porthos, he said, “Can you go on with Aramis' Spanish papers?”

Porthos nodded and rose.

“I'll make a couple of phone calls, then I'll join you to help with the papers. Maybe Charlène can go through some of the documents, too. I fear we're really running out of time.”

It was almost evening, and Athos knew even if they found clear proof within the next few hours, Aramis would have to spent at least that night in custody. Then it would be a matter of how well Tréville and Anne's lawyer were able to present the evidence to the committing magistrate to get Aramis free. Unfortunately, first they needed to find something at all.

Long after the street lamps and first Christmas illuminations had started to paint the Parisian streets with their warm lights, brightening the darkness that had settled over the capital, LaFère Security's windows were all still lit. Now and then a shadow flickered behind the glass, revealing to a random onlooker that the office was still occupied, that people were still at work there, even if the clockhand was approaching midnight. What the onlooker would not know, though, was that all the working hours the office's occupants had spent poring over their computers, had been in vain so far.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis woke from someone pressing a gloved hand over his mouth and nose and registered at the same time the prick of a needle being stabbed into his upper arm. _Not again_ , he thought, trying to put up at least a little bit of resistance before he was immobilized. “Shhh, quiet, Musketeer,” someone hissed, and Aramis could have sworn he knew the voice. But his eyes rolled back in their sockets before he could finish his thought.


	8. Breach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos looked every bit like he was ready to punch someone, and Athos hoped it would not be Tréville who had to serve as scapegoat. “Porthos is right. I'm sure they are not in Paris any longer.”

“What do you mean he's not there any more?” Tréville had repeated the same sentence three times but Athos could still not grasp the meaning of it. “I don't understand. Not there. Have they released him already?”

“Listen, I've absolutely no time _at all_ , but I'll be in the office in ten minutes. Wait till I'm there and I'll explain it to you.”

Before Athos could reply, Tréville had hung up. Slowly, Athos put the receiver back down. He had heard what Tréville had said, had understood it, word for word, but somehow his mind refused to string the words together to form a coherent, logical message. _Was not there any more?_

Maybe, Athos thought, it was just the lack of sleep that made his mind sluggish and non-perceptive. Two painkillers certainly hadn’t helped. He had slept three hours at the most, the task of finding proof to get Aramis out of custody the driving force behind his return to the office before dawn. When Athos had arrived, Porthos had already been there, obviously driven by the same unrest and concern for their brother. Athos wondered if Porthos had slept at all. Shortly after, an overtired-looking d'Artagnan had joined them and they had worked in complete silence until Constance and Charlène had arrived and handed out croissants and more coffee a couple of hours later.

Athos rose and walked over to Porthos. “Tréville just called to inform me Aramis is not in custody any more, but he says Aramis was not released. I'm not sure what he means. Have you spoken with him this morning? With Aramis, I mean.”

Porthos shook his head. “No, but I talked to Anne on the phone. She's trying to see Aramis today together with her lawyer. Maybe the police will let her be with him for the consultation. She didn't mention he might get released today.” Porthos took a look at the watch. “She had agreed to meet her lawyer at the police station at ten, so it's unlikely her lawyer has already pushed through a petition for release.” It was shortly after nine now.

D'Artagnan, who had heard the other two talking, came over. “Any news on Aramis?”

Athos repeated what he had just told Porthos.

“Oh my God, do you think he tried to escape?” D'Artagnan asked in alarm. “Tréville would have said it, wouldn't he?” A whiff of panic rang through d'Artagnan's rapid words. “Aramis wouldn't do that, right? Do you think he's injured? Maybe taken to a hospital, that's why Tréville said he's not there any more, yes?”

Athos gripped d'Artagnan's shoulder, trying to calm the young man down. “He would not be _that_ stupid.” He glanced at Porthos, taking in the other's expression and added, a tad less convinced, “He wouldn't, would he?”

Porthos stared back. He wasn't sure any more if he could judge his friend's behaviour the way he used to. Who knew how Aramis reacted nowadays under great pressure, fearing for Anne and the child? After all, the marksman had been prone to making rash decisions before.

“I've not thought about it, but you could be right,” Athos went on. “Maybe he felt sick and they had to take him to hospital?” Athos looked at Porthos again, his thoughts spinning. “His blood results are still not back to normal, and I'm sure he didn't take with him the pills Dr. Bellamy prescribed. Did Anne take the pills to the station? Maybe his health deteriorated?”

“Damn!” Porthos squeezed by Athos and walked over to Aramis' room. Once there, he opened the drawers until he found what he was looking for. “Here they are!” He held up the opened blister pack.

“Did Tréville tell you which hospital they’ve taken Aramis to?” asked d'Artagnan.

“No, he simply said he wasn't in his cell any more. Tréville's coming by, he should be here any minute.”

Porthos joined the others again, the blister pack still in his hand. “Maybe we can drive to the hospital together, though I'm not sure if we'll be allowed in. I wonder if Anne has been informed?”

The buzzer in the reception area sounded and Charlène answered the bell. A moment later Tréville stepped through the door. He saw the Musketeers gathered in front of Porthos' room and walked over.

“Is Aramis okay? Is he in hospital?” d'Artagnan asked before Tréville had reached them.

“Can we visit him?” asked Porthos.

Tréville briefly closed his eyes and exhaled. “No. What I've been trying to explain to Athos is that Aramis is not in custody any more and we have no idea where he has been taken.”

Uncomprehending eyes stared at Tréville.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Porthos asked finally.

“I'm not yet sure what it means, but it seems Aramis has been taken somewhere else without direct order. None of the police departments, police officers or the prosecutor involved in this case ordered him to be moved. Nevertheless, at two o'clock in the morning two police officers produced an order, marched down to the cells and left the police department together with Aramis. An unresponsive Aramis, as it seems from what we see on the CCTV footage. Coincidentally, the monitoring cameras in the basement didn't work so we've no idea what happened in the cells.”

“What?” Athos rasped. “How can this happen? How can the night duty officers let someone take Aramis away?”

Simultaneously, Porthos growled, “Who took him away? Grimaud? He what? Simply walks into a police station unhindered, freeing prisoners as he pleases?”

“Didn't Aramis put up a fight?” d'Artagnan asked doubtfully, quietly.

“They produced a valid, signed order, so the officers on duty had no reason to believe it wasn’t genuine. Which it possibly even was. We're still trying to find out who signed the order and if the signature is faked. The officer's name who handed out the order and signed the log book reads Marcheaux,” Tréville added, grinding his teeth.

Now Athos stepped back to the visitor chairs and slumped down, shaking his head. “This can only be a bad joke.”

At the same time Porthos shouted, furiously, anxiously, “How could you have let his happen?”

D'Artagnan looked to and fro between Tréville, Porthos and Athos.

“I didn't let this happen, Porthos. I had no influence on it. How should I have known something like this would happen?”

“Do you suggest it's really that easy to get a prisoner out of police custody?” Athos mumbled, staring at a point on the floor between his feet.

“No. As it is, Marcheaux and his partner are indeed working for the police force. The Paris Police Prefecture has nearly 20,000 officers on active service, a third of them working for the _Police Municipale_. I can't know every officer who is working in greater Paris.” Tréville rubbed his brow. “I've already got men checking on Marcheaux.”

Athos raised his head, eyeing Tréville. “I'm convinced it's our old friend Marcheaux and it will soon turn out he has neglected to report for duty this morning. You already suspected this summer that someone from within the agency was giving away confidential information. There you have him.”

“ _Putain de merde!_ ” Porthos shouted, starting to pace up and down in the reception area. The worst sort of swearing echoed through the room until Porthos ended his outburst with a kick to the armchair.

“What now?” Athos asked into the sudden silence. “What do we do now?”

Tréville walked over to the seating area and collapsed into the armchair next to Athos. “We wait until we have further information on who ordered the move and where Aramis has been taken to. It won't be long before we have found Marcheaux' department and private address. As soon as we have Marcheaux or his partner we'll decide what to do next.”

Porthos strolled over, planting himself in front of the captain. “Do you really think Marcheaux is waiting until one of your people come to arrest him? By now he will be up and away with Aramis. The scent is getting cold while we sit here and talk.”

Porthos looked every bit like he was ready to punch someone, and Athos hoped it would not be Tréville who had to serve as scapegoat. “Porthos is right. I'm sure they are not in Paris any longer.”

“True, but as soon as we know more about Marcheaux we can start the search. Besides, there's still a tiny chance that Aramis really has been moved to another police department, though I can't imagine why.”

With an angry snort, Porthos snarled at Tréville, “I'm not going to sit here and wait until you and your department have sorted out this mess!”

“Fine,” Athos replied instead of Tréville, a tad more aggressive than he meant to. “Let's go searching for him. Where do you want to start? Paris? France? Spain? Marcheaux could have taken him anywhere.” Athos checked his watch. “It's been eight hours since Aramis was abducted, they could be as far as the Spanish border by now. And with a valid warrant and genuine police badge Marcheaux can easily cross any European border without trouble.” Athos rose. “Tell me, Porthos, where should we start?”

The two men glowered at each other.

“ _Messieurs,_ ” Tréville intervened, rising from his seat. “Bickering won't help Aramis. I'm not suggesting you sit down and do nothing. We still need to find one clear proof that Rochefort abducted Monsieur Autriche and Grimaud helped him. Continue with this. As soon as I have material on Marcheaux I'll let you know and we can pick up there. D'Artagnan, didn't you say you have access to the public CCTV system?”

“Yes, but so have you. Haven't your men already checked?”

“The administrative mills grind slowly. We have checked the footage of the police department's cameras covering the immediate area, but getting the order to access the public CCTV takes some time.”

D'Artagnan grinned despite the serious situation. Getting Tréville's approval for illegal action was new. “I'll start right away with it and Constance can continue with the footage from Courville-sur-Eure. Constance!” he shouted, belatedly realizing that both secretaries stood directly behind the reception counter within earshot, tensely listening to the men's conversation.

Constance nodded. “I'll start right away.” She followed d'Artagnan to his office for further details.

Simultaneously, Tréville's mobile and the telephone on Charlène's desk started ringing.

Tréville answered the call with a shouted “Do you have him?” by way of greeting, impatiently awaiting his deputy's answer.

Charlène had taken the call, too, cradling the receiver in one hand while mouthing the word 'Anne' to Athos.

With a glance towards Tréville, Athos stepped up to the counter, taking the receiver from Charlène. “Anne,” he muttered, waiting for his counterpart to speak.

Tréville, intently listening to what the officer on the other hand had to report, gestured to Porthos to follow him to the bigger man's office. “Wait a moment, I'll put you on speaker,” he ordered his deputy, closing the door behind him. He placed his mobile on the desk and took a seat opposite Porthos, both men following the policeman's report with knitted brows.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The day passed without news of Aramis' whereabouts. Neither the police nor any of the Inseparables found any trace of where their friend had been taken. Marcheaux, too, remained undetected as did the police officer who had accompanied him in the night. 

Tréville, with the help of Athos, had urged a devastated Anne to go into hiding. He had personally taken her and Henri to an address known only to Tréville and which Athos suspected of being a private hideout rather than a police safe-house. However, he unconditionally trusted the erstwhile First Minister of France with the former queen's safety and didn't ask where she had been taken to.

Outside, the lights of Paris had lit up hours ago, again illuminating the lavish Christmas decorations in the streets, and the clock was nearing midnight. Aramis had been missing for almost 24 hours now, as Athos noted with a glance at his watch. “Maybe you’re right,” Athos said tiredly to an equally exhausted-looking Porthos. “Maybe we should just start searching him. Hop into the car and head.... somewhere.” He rubbed his eyes. “Where would you turn to if you were Grimaud? Have we checked Éparcy? Where's his place of birth in this century?”

Before Porthos could reply, d’Artagnan rushed into the office without knocking, bumping into Porthos. “I have him!” the young man shouted excitedly, ignoring Porthos rubbing his shoulder and glowering at him.

“Who? Aramis?” Porthos asked hopefully.

“No, Rochefort. Sorry,” the young man offered belatedly. “I have the proof we need. On footage. Rochefort and Grimaud.” D’Artagnan spread some print outs on Athos’ desk. “Both of them together in one car, talking to each other. Even the police can't doubt Rochefort's involvement now. Look!”

Constance, who was still in the office and had followed d'Artagnan, closed the door and joined the men stooping over Athos’ desk to study the pictures.

“Where is this? Where did you find it?” The photos showed Rochefort as well as Grimaud, on a few of the print-outs they could be seen together, driving in a car, standing in front of a car, talking and smoking. They seemed to be very familiar with each other. Athos looked expectantly at the young Gascon.

“Constance spotted them. So far I have only downloaded the CCTV footage I could get from the Département Eure-et-Loir, concentrating on the _arrondissement_ Chartres. While going through the footage here in Paris in search of Aramis I suddenly remembered a conversation I had with a friend from Canada a while ago. That with all the discussions going on about surveillance cameras, data protection, privacy protection and so on there's often one fact being neglected.” D'Artagnan looked from one to the other. “So-called weather cams, local webcams. Most villages and cities have them nowadays, tourist areas anyway. I started to check which of the villages and hamlets around Friaize operate such weather cams and I found a few. Among others, there's one in Saint Éliph, about ten kilometres west of Friaize, though between both villages there's a forest you have to drive around if you don't want to use private roads or rough forest tracks. Anyway, Saint Éliph is small but they have a beautiful old church and the local priest managed to persuade the local council--” D'Artagnan was interrupted in his lengthy report.

“Less detail, more information, d'Artagnan,” Athos said, perking his eyebrows up.

“Right. Well, anyway, there's a weather cam and it's putting a picture online every quarter of an hour. There are two viewing directions, one facing the churchyard and the surrounding vicinity, one shows the small market place and the road leading out of town, towards the forest, into direction of Friaize. Usually, these cameras upload live pictures and each shot is replaced with the next uploaded picture. It would use up too much storage space to keep every single shot, so most official providers, local authorities and so on use this technique. But in this case, we were lucky. Since it's such a small village--”

“D'Artagnan, get to the point.”

“I would, if you'd let me speak!” The young man glowered at Athos. “They save and file every single picture the weather cam takes and I could go as far back as the beginning of the year. That's why we're in the lucky position of having pictures of Rochefort and Grimaud for the period from February to November, in Rochefort's case naturally only until July. Instead of using official roads from Courville-sur-Eure or Pontgouin, they used back roads, coming west from Saint-Éliph, through the forest. That's why we couldn't spot them on any CCTV footage. Or in Grimaud's case, only rarely.”

“You are a genius, pup,” Porthos said.

“I know.” D'Artagnan grinned back. “I cropped some of the photos so Rochefort and Grimaud are unambiguously identifiable. This must be enough to convince the prosecutor. It unmistakably ties Rochefort to Grimaud and therefore to the abduction.”

Athos leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. “That's at least some good news. Very well done, d'Artagnan and Constance. It's already past midnight, so Tréville won't get hold of the prosecutor now. I think we can wait until tomorrow morning before presenting these facts to the police. I'll just let Tréville know what we have.”

Porthos mumbled his consent. “I'll finish my current research and then try to get some sleep.”

“We all need some sleep. You two go home now and get some rest.” Athos addressed the young couple. “Come back tomorrow morning. I'll let you know when Tréville has news.”

Reluctantly, d'Artagnan left the office with Constance. The two older men returned to their tasks and worked well into the early morning hours, despite their earlier instructions to try to get some sleep. 

However, they had no success in finding where Aramis might have been taken.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis woke to a throbbing head, a dull pain in his body and the feel of icy coldness crawling up from the soil beneath. 

He could feel the damp earth under his cheek; he was definitively not lying on a bed or mattress. A shudder ran through him. Finally, he forced his eyes open to locate where he was. It took him a moment to find his bearings; the light was dim and his mind was blank, devoid of any memory. He realized that he could move neither his hands nor feet; they were bound, his hands behind his back and his feet so tight it hurt. His eyes settled on the only spot not hidden in darkness, a rectangle of light not far from his head. It was a hole in a wall, not big enough to be called a window, and far too low for one, but it allowed him to look through and see what was outside his confinement. He took in black soil, glistening with moisture and frost, and behind, snow-covered slopes climbing up a hill until it merged with the landscape of forest and hills and grey sky. He blinked to clear his vision. Staring at the scene outside, his mind betrayed him for a brief, shocking moment, mingling memories of old and new. _Savoy!_ He was in Savoy, he remembered those snow-covered hills!

Marsac had left him behind and now he lay here, unable to move, surrounded by his dead comrades, injured and dying. Ripples of fear ran through him. He could feel his heart beating, quickly and hard against the ribcage, cold claws slowly suffocating him. _It is not real!_ He knew it couldn't be real, yet his body refused to acknowledge what his brain had already sorted out. He could _smell_ the snow, the damp soil and the waft of metallic scent two dozen dead Musketeers would leave behind on a killing field. _He could smell it!_ He drew a shallow breath. And then another, and another, suppressing the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. The image faded, until it was again no more than a stale memory. He must have been brought to Savoy, but this was not a training excursion and he had not been left behind to die. Or maybe he was going to die, but not because Marsac had left him nor because soldiers from Savoy had ambushed them. Savoy was in the past. Probably this wasn't even Savoy.

Aramis craned his neck to see if there was more outside but the rolling hills, but he couldn't detect anything of interest. His eyes returned to his quarters, taking in the damp stone walls barely visible in the poor light, and he tried to sit up. An impossible task, as he very soon found out. With his hands and feet bound so tight, the attempt only brought him further pain. Slowly, the memory came back. Grimaud. The Autriche case. The prison cell....


	9. Braving The Perils (Of The Musketeer Life)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimaud knelt down beside Aramis, bringing his face close to Aramis' ear. “I only want what's due to me,” he whispered. Suddenly a knife flashed in his hands, hovering only inches away from Aramis' face.

“And there you have it all, the missing piece to tie Rochefort to the crime scene.” Athos ended his report. “With what he did this summer, his connection with Grimaud and the witness statement from his henchman, the charges against Aramis and Anne must be dropped. The accusations won't hold.”

Tréville nodded, looking approvingly over at d'Artagnan. “Good work, d'Artagnan. I will pass this on to the prosecutor. The _gendarmerie_ in Montreau reported an abandoned car in a forest carpark just five kilometres away from Friaize last week. The report was sent to us because of the close proximity to the farmhouse in Friaize, though they think the car might have stood there for a long time, maybe months. I've seen the pictures from Montreau and it damn well looks like this car here,” Tréville said, tapping his finger on one of the photos where Grimaud and Rochefort leaned against the car boot, smoking. “I'll immediately sent forensics over to lift fingerprints from it. We have both Grimaud and Rochefort's fingerprints in the database. Maybe they'll even find DNA.”

“Anything new on Marcheaux?” Porthos asked.

“His flat and office has been turned upside down. We are analysing everything, but currently there's no hint where Marcheaux or Aramis might be. Marcheaux' partner is also unlocatable at the moment.”

“Did you check Marcheaux' file? Do we know if he remembers? Any hints on stab wounds or the like?” asked Athos.

“I've checked his file personally, there's nothing suggesting he was badly injured in recent years and there's no report on injuries for his time in service.”

“It doesn't matter,” Athos muttered. “I'm sure Aramis is no longer with Marcheaux. He's only a henchman. Aramis will be in the hands of Grimaud by now. If we find Grimaud, we'll find Aramis.”

“Nevertheless, the search for Marcheaux and the other officer, Garronet, is still a priority, along with the search for Grimaud,” Tréville replied.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What do you want, Grimaud?” 

“What, are you not happy to see me again, Musketeer?”

Aramis' whole body ached, he didn't know how long he had lain there on the bitter cold ground, not even able to waggle his hands or feet. He couldn't feel them any more, which was, if he thought about it, maybe a blessing. As it was, there were already enough body parts hurting, more pain might have only brought tears to his eyes. He tensed up his muscles to stop them from shivering and shaking. He didn't want to give Grimaud the pleasure of seeing him in such poor condition. “You know, I could have lived without seeing you ever again, so the pleasure certainly is not on my side. Now that we have exchanged courtesies, how about you untie me and let me go?”

Grimaud didn't even twitch a facial muscle upon Aramis' response. “Still the reckless one, are we?” He took another step towards Aramis, towering threateningly over the Musketeer now. “I'll shut you up, just wait and see.” To emphasize his words, he kicked Aramis in the side with the tip of his boot. Hard.

Aramis gasped, biting his lips immediately after to keep any sound of distress inside. “What do you want?” he growled, once he trusted his voice to carry the words.

Grimaud knelt down beside Aramis, bringing his face close to Aramis' ear. “I only want what's due to me,” he whispered. Suddenly a knife flashed in his hands, hovering only inches away from Aramis' face.

Aramis took some effort to not flinch, his numb limbs thankfully simplifying the task.

Grimaud grabbed Aramis' arm and turned him over, a moment later the knife cut through the cable tie holding Aramis' hands together. Before Aramis could even register what had happened, Grimaud produced handcuffs and grabbed Aramis' right wrist where the cold metal snapped home. With brute force, he yanked the arm around, causing Aramis' body to roll back and burying his left arm underneath him. Grimaud pulled out the arm and closed the metal bracket around the other wrist. Then he produced a rope which he tied to the handcuffs.

Aramis watched Grimaud rise and sheath the knife. He wondered what the other man had planned. A moment later Grimaud threw the rope over a hook attached to the ceiling and Aramis knew what was next for him when Grimaud started pulling the rope tight, hauling Aramis up. With his nearly frozen limbs it was painful, but Aramis didn't let it show. “You know, you could've asked. I could have saved you time and trouble and just got up myself.”

Grimaud didn't reply but simply continued hauling Aramis into a standing position until his feet barely touched the ground any more.

Aramis wanted to scream, the pain in his shoulder joints were already unbearable. He clenched his teeth so hard that it added further pain in his jaw.

Grimaud tied the end of the rope to an iron ring on the wall, making sure Aramis would stay in the same position. “Don't concern yourself with me. Give me what I want and this will be over.”

“You are as mad as Rochefort was.”

Grimaud grinned. “Rochefort was as mad as a hatter, but I'm not, believe me. I'm gonna tell you what I want and what I'm going to do to get it, and you can decide how you want it to happen.”

“I can hardly wait to hear it.”

Unannounced, Grimaud hit Aramis in the face, hard and painful. “Do you think this is a game? Do you think you're in the position to mock me?” Again, his fist connected with Aramis' jawline, hard enough that the former marksman's sight blackened for a moment. Grimaud grabbed Aramis' chin so roughly it left bruises. “Tell me what I want and this will be over before it starts. Or have it the hard way. Your decision.” Grimaud stepped back, rubbing his hand to get some warmth into them. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?”

“You know what. Where did you hide it?”

“Grimaud, as entertaining as this all is, I have no idea what you're talking about. What do you want from me?”

“The key.”

Silence.

Aramis blinked uncomprehending. “What key?”

“The key Rochefort had with him. Where is it?”

Another stretch of silence followed, the two men staring at each other.

Finally, Aramis uttered, “I know of no key. Nor do I have any key that has formerly been in the possession of Rochefort. You’re mistaken.”

This time Grimaud punched Aramis in the gut which left the bound man gasping for breath.

“Listen, I know one of you has taken the key into possession. Tell me where it is and we're done here. Otherwise I'll beat you so thoroughly that your own mother won't be able to recognize you again. If you still won't come out with it, I'll make good use of my knife. I'm a virtuoso with the knife, believe me. I can paint your body with a wonderful map of pain. If you _still_ refuse to answer, we're switching to the pistol. Arms, knees, thighs, stomach. There are many possibilities until a man finally succumbs to blood loss and pain. That's why we start easy. Gunshot wounds tend to lead to the death of a man, and a dead man is not useful for me. For now, anyway. When I'm through with you I'm sure there's the next of the renowned Inseparables at hand to continue.”

“I've no idea what you're talking about, Grimaud. None of us has a key from Rochefort. But don't let that stop you from torturing me.”

The next left hook hitting his face made his his nose bleed and set off a loud ringing in his ears. Aramis could hardly move and dodge the hits, but he still tried. After a while he stopped making the effort and simply let the furious blows rain down on him until he felt his mind go numb and his consciousness slip. 

He embraced the dark void like an old friend.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Athos, have you thought about calling--” Porthos stopped mid-sentence, closely looking at the man whose office he had just entered. “You look shitty.”

Athos lifted an eyebrow. “Well, thanks for the compliment.”

“I mean it. When was the last time you slept?”

A tell-tale silence followed Porthos' question until Athos answered. “Last night. About an hour or two.”

“And the nights before?”

“Not much. Now, are we through with your interrogation? It's not that you've spent much time in your own bed recently either, right?”

“How about you go home and take a nap? I'm convinced we all, Aramis included, will do better if you have your wits about you rather than collapsing from lack of sleep.”

Athos glowered at his friend. “I'm a grown man, I can go without sleep for a while.”

Porthos stared with knitted brows.

Athos stared back.

“U-hu. Do you remember the one time when you were so sleep-deprived you missed registering--”

“You wouldn't bring that up, would you?” Athos asked surprised, offended.

“You know how it ended. Get some sleep and come back with fresh energy. I'll call you the moment we have any news. Okay?”

Athos hesitated a second before nodding. “All right. Not that I take orders from you, but I had already entertained the thought of going home and getting a shower. I'll be back in two hours. I _rely_ on you to call me the moment anything turns up. And I mean _anything_ , Porthos, got that?”

The big man nodded. “Promised. And make it three hours at least.”

“What did you want anyway?”

“Never mind, I'll speak to Charlène. She can sort it out.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Oh, hi!” Ninon greeted him when he stepped through the door. “I haven't seen you in a while. Busy?”

“Bonjour, Ninon. Yes, we've got a lot going on at the moment. How are you?”

Ninon smiled. “Fine thanks.” She took a closer look at the older man. “But you look tired, haven't had much sleep recently, have you?”

Athos smiled upon hearing almost the same choice of words Porthos had used earlier. “No, it's been a rough week. But I hope we'll have everything sorted out in a few days.” He held the door open for Ninon who walked by him.

“That's good. I had meant to ask you if you'd like to join me for a private viewing of works by Sophie Calle I’ve been invited to the week after next.”

“I'd like to do that, depending on my workload then.” He was unaware of the smile that spread on his face while speaking with her.

“Great! Well, I hope your ex-wife won't mind you going out with me,” Ninon added with a wink, turning to step into the street. “See ya.”

Athos felt a chill running up his spine. “Ex-wife? What do you mean?” he called after Ninon.

The young woman stopped and turned, smirking. “You never let on you’d been married.” Seeing the grave expression on the man's face her smile dropped. “She was here, waiting for you. She asked me if I'd know when you'd be back and we talked a little. She's nice. You must have told her about me because she knew perfectly well who I was. That really makes me wonder why you never mentioned her,” Ninon added, faking a sulk.

Athos stepped up to Ninon, his mind weighing all possible answers. “I'm sorry, there was never an opportunity to talk about her. Please, keep away from her. She's dangerous.” Seeing the quizzical look on Ninon's face, he added, “I'll explain it to you in due course. At the moment, I'm... Just keep away from her for the time being, okay?”

Ninon nodded hesitantly. “Okay. Bye.” She turned and walked away.

Athos watched her go until she rounded the corner, then he headed up the stairs, taking two steps at a time. Gone was the tiredness he had felt not five minutes ago. He expected to find Milady in his apartment, or at least a note, slipped under the door. However, there was nothing. No hint whatsoever that she had been into his flat at all. He leaned against the kitchen counter and knew he would have to weigh up his concern for Aramis with worry for Ninon, and what his ex-wife was planning. He had to make a decision about what was most important for him now, because there was plainly not enough time to fight on two fronts at once. He made up his mind in less than a minute. Aramis' well-being had utmost priority and left little space for other emotions, the search for his ex-wife and what her intentions were with regard to Ninon would have to wait. But he could at least start with a few simple tasks.

He kicked off his shoes on the way to the bedroom, dialling Porthos' mobile. When his call was answered, he asked Porthos to check if there was any possibility of getting hold of Milady's mobile number, either through d'Artagnan or the police network. And if so, whether they could locate and trace it. Then he rang off and stretched on the bed. He wanted to close his eyes for just a few minutes, take a shower then and return to the office. To be on the safe side he set the alarm clock on his mobile, his subconscious mind causing him to set a time that would allow him an hour to relax rather than the ten minutes he had meant to grant himself. Staring at the ceiling he pondered what he could tell Ninon, and if she'd be willing to leave Paris for a while. Without being aware of it, he slipped into a dreamless sleep before he had thought through his plans for Ninon.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It took a while for Aramis' mind to find his way back to consciousness.

It was a difficult task to undertake, accompanied by groaning and squirming with pain. When the fog that had settled over his mind finally lifted enough to realize he was no longer hanging from the ceiling and the beating had stopped, he also registered the tremble shaking him. 

The cold air cut his throat like frozen glass when he breathed in, but at the same time it soothed his hot skin. With his eyes still closed, he took stock of his body. His hands and feet were still bound, so he could not move his limbs freely, but the tiny movements were sufficient enough to understand that no bones were broken. A wonder, given how maniacally Grimaud had beaten him before he fell unconscious. Aramis wasn't sure however if he should call it a piece of luck that no bones were broken; there was almost no part of his body not screaming with pain. His lips as well as one of his eyes were swollen as he found out when he finally opened his eyes and let his tongue taste the dried blood on his lips. He tried to curl up into a ball to keep what little heat was still left in his body, but he gave up halfway through when his stomach revolted and the pain in his ankles increased. He fingered his wrists as well as was possible, wondering if one or both were sprained. The flesh was so swollen that the metal of the handcuffs cut deep into it. 

He closed his eyes again. Wondering what key Grimaud was talking about he slipped back into unconsciousness.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Porthos stared into the grey, wet December morning outside his window. Christmas was less than two weeks away, but despite the decorations in the streets and in virtually every department store, shop and restaurant, he was far away from being in festive spirits. They still had no clue to Aramis’ whereabouts, Grimaud or Marcheaux. A few stray snowflakes whirled past the window, escaping the big man's notice. 

Porthos' eyes returned to his computer screen where footage from the Boulevard Périphérique was frozen in time. He'd worked since five that morning on the CCTV footage provided by Tréville. D'Artagnan had managed to trace the police car Marcheaux had used to get Aramis out of custody to a multi-storey car park in Bercy. Typically, the CCTV cameras inside the car park hadn't worked, but surveillance outside showed only five cars that had left within two hours after the police car had entered the building and which had later been found abandoned on the second level. The police had managed to track down the owners of those cars; two cars turned out to having been stolen earlier, one owner was not reachable so far, the remaining two car owners were unsuspicious. Porthos had concentrated on one of the stolen cars, trying to following it through the thick Parisian traffic with the help of the provided footage; d'Artagnan traced the other one.

Prompting the footage to start running again with a tip of his finger, Porthos continued with his task. When his mobile started ringing a minute later, he wondered whether or not to take the call. Unknown numbers seldom meant anything good. He let it ring twice more before swiping over the screen to answer the call.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi, _buenos dias_. Can I speak to Porthos, _por favor_?”

“Speaking. Who is this?” There was an assessable circle of people who would address him with _Porthos_ instead of _Isaac_ , and usually Porthos knew all of them. He wondered, who this unknown woman was.

“Sorry, my name is Isabella. I must apologize for my French, I'm not as fluent as my brother.”

Porthos waited for more, when nothing came, he asked, “And what do you want?”

“Errm, yes, I wondered if you might know where my brother is, I can't reach him.”

“If you'd tell me who your brother is, I might be able to help you. Or not.” Porthos could hear her laugh nervously and he already regretted having taken the call. They had no time at all to take on new clients at the moment.

“Yes, of course, sorry. I'm speaking of René. I wondered if you'd know where I could reach him, he isn't answering his phone.”

Porthos was on the verge of telling the woman he knew no René and he would not be able to help her, when it suddenly dawned on him who he was speaking to. 

Oh. _Oh_.

“Oh! You're his sister Isabella! He told us about you. I just hadn’t made the connection, I was a little—, erm, distracted.”

She laughed, less nervous, more relieved now. “Yes! It's okay, I should have introduced myself properly. I'm a little worried, that's all. Now, do you know where René is? How I can reach him?”

Porthos hesitated, unsure what answer to this question he should offer. He tried to stall for time. “Well, he's on a kind of assignment at the moment, I guess he's muted his phone. Or left it at home.” The lame excuse rang hollow in his ears and he knew she wouldn't buy it if she was anything like the person Aramis had told them she would be.

She was quiet for a moment. “Is he in danger? Do you at least _know_ where he is or don't you have any clue either?”

“Erm,” Porthos harrumphed. “It's complicated.”

“Listen, I don't know you personally, but I know René trusts you more than anyone else. You and--,” there was a short pause where she obviously searched for a name or two, “and Athos and d'Artagnan. As far as I can judge and know my brother, you're the closest friends he has, though he still owes me an explanation where you all were after what happened in Savoy, when he would have needed you most. But that's not my business, my brother certainly has his reasons. All I know is he gave me your name and number, in case anything would ever happen to him. Or if I was in need of help. I can't reach him, that's why I called you. So please, tell me if you know anything about his whereabouts. I really need to speak with him.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know where he is. We've been desperately trying to find him for days, and half of the Parisian police is involved in the search for him and he might be in danger, but I really don't know where he is. I can't tell you more.”

“Has it to do with Anne's husband?” she asked after a moment's silence.

Porthos brows met his hairline. Obviously Aramis had shared a lot of what was going on in his life with his sister, even though he never felt inclined to introduce her to his friends. “Um, yes. I wasn't aware you know her?”

“I met her once, and I know she means the world to him. The uncertain fate of her husband and the resulting impossibility of a divorce weighs hard on him.” As if Isabella had felt the disbelief and slight disappointment arising in Porthos, she added, “He wanted me to meet you all, too, but there simply was not enough time. A flight was delayed and the kids and I were stuck in Charles de Gaulle on a return flight, otherwise we would've only touched down and switched the plane. I called and told him I had about an hour time to see him if he was willing to come to the airport. That's where I met Anne. But I hope we can catch up on a meeting soon,” she added warmly.

Porthos was lost for words for a moment

“So, you're already searching for him, do you have any idea where he might be or what happened?” Now her voice had lost the lightness and softness it had had only a moment ago. She sounded deeply worried.

“We're doing everything in our power to find him. We know who is behind his disappearance and why, but we have still not located his whereabouts. If you give me your number, I'll let you know as soon as we have news, okay?”

“Thanks. But there's something else why I called you. It's the reason why I tried to reach René in the first place. Like I said, he told me should I ever be in trouble or need of help I should turn to you, if he's not available.”

“And he's absolutely right. Go on, what is it?”

“A friend of René contacted me the other day. We met by chance on the street, I had never seen him before nor heard of him, but he obviously knew me. René's careful about choosing friends and the few close friends he has, I know of. Like Thomas and Abdul whom he knew from an early age. Or you and Athos and d'Artagnan. Anyway, when I thought about the encounter a day later I felt uneasy about it and wanted to talk with René about it. And since yesterday I have the feeling someone is watching us. Me and the kids. I haven't seen someone, it's just a creepy feeling plus the fact I never in my life heard René mentioning a Spanish friend. All his friends are French, except for his late friend's brother-in-law, Antonio.”

“Yeah, I've met Antonio,” Porthos replied with a warm tone to his voice. “What friend? Did he give you a name?” Suddenly, something dreadful settled in his stomach.

“Yes, he introduced himself as Jussac Rocheouart or Rochforte or something like that. I've never heard of a friend called Jussac, though. It's a rather odd name, especially for a Spaniard.”

Porthos almost dropped his mobile. “Jussac de Rochefort?” he croaked.

“Oh, you know him? Is he a friend of yours?”

“No, Rochefort is dead. He was the one who started this whole mess and...,” Porthos stopped. He didn't know how much Aramis' sister or mother knew of this summer's events. Maybe nothing, and he was not willing to be the one to share that news. “He's an old enemy but he's dead now. We think he might be involved in the Autriche case and, you know, everything in its wake. Why Aramis has disappeared now.”

“But if this man is dead, how can he be here in Spain?” she asked anxiously.

“It isn't him. It's certainly one of his henchmen. Can you describe this man to me?”

Porthos listened to the description of a man who resembled no one he knew. They talked for further five minutes until Porthos ended the call, promising Aramis' sister to call her back once he had spoken with his friends and urging her to be careful. He rubbed his eyes and sat at his desk for another couple of minutes, recapping the conversation. Then he got to check if Athos was in the office yet.


	10. Breakup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis remained silent. He had been tortured before and would endure this, too.

Five minutes later the three remaining Inseparables had gathered in Athos office, each man a cup of fresh coffee in his hand, d'Artagnan slouching on the couch. Silently they listened to Porthos' summary of the phone call.

“I'll fly to Spain as soon as possible,” Porthos said matter-of-factly once he had finished his report.

His friends could see how conflicted Porthos was. Torn between trying to find and save Aramis, and flying to Spain to save said friend's family. Porthos knew what Aramis would want him to do, but it was a hard decision nonetheless.

Athos nodded. “You know it's what Aramis would want you to do. I'll speak to Tréville, he must make sure Anne and Henri stay hidden and safe. Maybe he can scale up police protection for them and even arrange something similar with the Spanish police for Aramis' family. You go to Spain and we'll continue the search here. Come back as soon as Aramis' family is safe.”

Porthos nodded. “There's a midday flight to Seville, if I hurry I'll be able to catch it.”

D'Artagnan's eyes widened in sudden comprehension. He had already lost his father at the beginning of this year; he couldn't bear losing his mother, too. “I'll have to see my mother! What if Grimaud or any of his helpers has already got to her?” He fished his mobile out of his pocket, dialling his mother's number. The call went unanswered. “I need to go to Lupiac.”

Athos shared a short, troubled glance with Porthos. This was getting worse by the minute. “You should go immediately. See to it that she leaves Lupiac for somewhere safe, where it's unlikely Grimaud or Marcheaux will find her. Not her sister in Marseille, that's too obvious.”

“I could fly to Pau and hire a car there. Depending on when I can get a flight, it would be the fastest route.”

“What about your family?” Porthos asked the older man. Athos had been very reluctant even with his closest friends to share information about his family. What Porthos knew was that the relationship to his father was difficult.

“There'll be no problem. My mother died years ago, and my father is a military man. He never shied away from danger, and he won't nowadays. I'll advise him to be cautious, but if Grimaud is planning anything towards him, he had better remember my old man's saying _If you're going to shoot the king, don't miss_. My father is a tough man and still armed to the teeth. In fact, his cold stare alone has killed tougher men than Grimaud.”

Porthos and d'Artagnan left to book their flights, d'Artagnan in between repeatedly trying to reach his mother without success. Both men managed to book flights for midday, which left them less than half an hour until they had to leave for the airport.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What if this is Grimaud's aim? That we're scattering and leaving Paris? Abandoning Aramis.” Porthos asked after d'Artagnan had left to pack a few things. 

“We're not abandoning him, Porthos. And yes, it's most likely exactly what he has planned. But there's no way around it, you both have to go. Just come back as soon as they're all safe.” Athos didn't voice another thought he’d had in this context, namely his suspicion that Grimaud would try to lure him to wherever he was hiding Aramis as soon as Porthos and d'Artagnan were out of town. And Athos was most willing to do just that. He, too, had no other choice. He was convinced it wouldn't be long until he would receive a message one way or the other.

Studying Athos face intently, Porthos said, “You will not do anything on your own. Understood?” When Athos failed to reply immediately, Porthos pressed on. “Athos, I know quite well what's going on in that head of yours. Promise here and now you won't face Grimaud on your own. Wait until we're back. Wait at least until _I'm_ back. Or, at least, ask Tréville for backup. As much as I want to find Aramis, if you're going alone, the pup and I will probably have two friends to worry about.”

“Don't worry. Among the four of us, I've always been the only one who thought things through before acting, haven't I?”

“Yeah,” Porthos muttered. “That's what worries me most.”

They said goodbye and Porthos made his way to the airport, too.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

It was late and already dark when d'Artagnan rang the bell of his family home. 

He had continuously tried to get his mother on the phone, always without success and the one and a half hour drive from the airport in Pau to Lupiac had taken unnaturally long, making him all the more jumpy and restless. When no one answered the door, he let himself in with his key. 

“ _Maman_!” he called through the house. The lights were on in the kitchen and the living room, he saw the light's soft glow seeping through the crack in the door at the bottom, illuminating the oaken parquet floor. When he got no answer, an uneasiness started crawling up his spine. He looked up along the stairway leading to the upper floor where his and his parents' bedroom were, these days only occupied by his mother. It was dark up there. He called out once more, loud enough that his mother should have heard, even if she was in the bathroom with the doors closed. He listened for any sign of life in the house, water running in the shower, the flush of the toilet, anything, but there was none.

Slowly he started walking towards the closed living room door, passing the open kitchen on his way. He let his eyes roam over the well acquainted, small room. The coffee brewer on the kitchen counter sputtered and hissed, pressing the last amount of water through the filter, the last drops of freshly brewed coffee trickling into the coffee pot. Someone must have started the process less than ten minutes ago. The coffee machine was new, purchased after their return to France, and d'Artagnan remembered it was much faster than their old one, which had hissed and sizzled for more than 15 minutes to produce a full pot of coffee. Someone was here, and had put coffee on a short while ago.

His heart picked up speed, pumping his blood faster through his veins, driven by the sudden rush of adrenaline. His hands turned cold. Fearing the worst, he crept along the aisle towards the living room, slowly pushing the door open after he had composed himself with a deep breath. The sight he was greeted by was one he would most likely never forget in all his life. After a moment of stunned amazement he wanted to call out to his mother, but instead of _maman_ , all that came out was a choked “Mam”, the word crumbling to pieces somewhere between him and her. He had recognized the human heap in front of the fireplace immediately, the fire coating his mother's skin with a warm glow, giving her black hair a shine of deep blue. Her limbs stuck out from the body in a grotesque way, those parts not touching the ground pointing in opposite directions in a way that was not natural. D'Artagnan's eyes widened another fraction in lack of understanding.

Suddenly his mother opened her eyes and shrieked as blood-curdling as the Nazguls' winged creatures on their way from Mordor.

D'Artagnan jumped and shrieked back, flailing a little with his arms.

“Good heavens, boy, you gave me a real scare,” his mother said, “I didn't hear you coming.” She untangled her limbs and took off the headphones.

“Jesus _Christ_ , mum! What are you doing?” d'Artagnan was sure his face must have lost all colour the moment his mother had opened her eyes and cried out. He could hear his heart pounding unnaturally loud in his ears, like the drums of Drumcree in July.

“Yoga,” Madame d'Artagnan replied nonchalantly, rising from the floor. “I didn't expect you.”

“I rang the doorbell and called out for you. Several times. It's not my fault if you don't hear anything with these headphones on. And, by the way, when in the Lord's name did you start using headphones? And doing yoga?” D'Artagnan's voice, shaken as he was, carried a tone of subtle reproach. And rightfully so, the young man thought, his mother had scared him to hell. “What kind of yoga position is this anyway?”

“I use headphones since old Remy from across bought himself a leaf blower. You can't hear yourself speaking in your own home if he is running around with it.”

D'Artagnan looked sceptically out of the window into the dark. “Mum, it's December, there's hardly a leaf left on any tree!”

“Go and tell this to Remy! He's using this blasted thing for much more than just blowing the last leaf from side to side. He even uses it to push his grandchildren on the swing, would you believe it!” Madame d'Artagnan shook her head thinking about her neighbour's crotchetiness and then smiled. “It's called Dying Swan.”

“Who? The grandchild?”

“No! Don't be silly, the yoga figure I was trying. I'm sure it should look different, but I just can't bring my shoulder round any further and it's a mystery to me how one should balance on two toes and half a kneecap. Anyway. Do you want a cup of coffee? Should be through by now.” Madame d'Artagnan walked over and embraced her son. “I'm glad to see you. What are you doing here? You didn't say you'd come. Not that I'm complaining,” she added with a wink.

D'Artagnan sighed. “It's complicated. I'm glad you're okay.” He kissed his mother on the cheek, which made her look at him in surprise. Then he followed her to the kitchen. “It seems we're in trouble again, especially Aramis. And there's another threat now.”

D'Artagnan talked and talked while his mother filled cups of coffee and started cooking dinner. Finally, she sat down with him at the table, only commenting now and then on the things he had to tell. When he had finished with his report she sighed, grabbing his hand. “You know, I haven't told you yet, but I got an invitation from Odette and Yves asking to spend Christmas and New Year with them in Quebec. I'd really like to go, but it would leave you alone for Christmas, unless you would come with me or would go and see your aunt in Marseille for the holidays.”

A smile spread on d'Artagnan's face. “I'm not alone, _maman_. I've got family in Paris.”

“I'm so happy to know you've found friends. It was a hard year for both of us.” D'Artagnan's mother squeezed his hand before letting go of it. “I would really like to meet them all, especially Constance. She seems to be a wonderful young lady, if the sparkle in your eyes when you speak about her is anything to go by.”

D'Artagnan blushed. “She's the best thing that happened to me. Come to Paris with me and meet her. I'm sure Odette will be happy to have you around even before Christmas. You could come to Paris with me now and book the next available flight to Quebec. Till then you can stay at my place. I would really feel better knowing you're out of France for awhile and Canada is far enough away for my liking.” The young man grinned at his mother.

Madame d'Artagnan sighed. “I'm not fully convinced if this new job is such a good idea, and I know you're not telling me everything, especially about the more risky parts. I'm sure it's much more dangerous than you let on.” She rose to get the dishes and lay the table. “But I can also see that it makes you happy. Just promise me you are cautious in everything you do.” She looked down at her son with a fond smile, well acquainted with her son's rash nature . 

“I am. I promise. Really. So, how fast can you pack and get the house ready to leave for a while?”

D'Artagnan's mother shook her head, laughing lightly. “You're crazy. I'll need some time. I'm not even sure if my passport is still valid. And I'd need to ask Brigitte if she can look after the house while I'm away. The shrubs are not yet winterised and the water and heating needs to be...”

D'Artagnan rose, halting his mother's stream of words with his raised hand. “All right, all right. Let's at least try to get ready as soon as possible, I need to be back in Paris as fast as I can and I won't leave without you. Just tell me what I can do.”

Madame d'Artagnan reflected the question for a moment, looking here and there before clapping her hands once. “Okay. Let's eat and I'll tell you with what you can start while I speak with Odette later.” 

When d'Artagnan fell into his old bed hours later he was utterly exhausted, but happy that his mother would finally come to meet Constance and furthermore soon be out of any possible danger once she had left France.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The next time Aramis woke it was because he was lifted from the ground in a rude and painful way. Grimaud slapped him in the face to awake him. “Come on, let's start the next round. Do you have anything to say?” 

“I've no idea what you're talking about,” Aramis slurred. “Don't know nothing of a key. Why did you kidnap Autriche?” His hands were hauled up again, tied to the rope that still hung from the ceiling. _Keep talking to him_ , his mind whispered, _keep talking_. Engaging Grimaud in conversation would give him time to stall the inevitable, but his mind was sluggish, his wits dulled by thirst and pain. He had problems keeping his eyes open. “Why did you keep him alive?”

Grimaud secured the end of the rope to the iron ring again and turned to face Aramis. “Kidnapping Autriche was neither my idea nor my concern. You know better than me why Rochefort did it, don't you?”

Aramis opened his one good eye, carefully watching Grimaud. “Why didn't you kill him after Rochefort died?” he croaked, his throat parched to a point that made it hard to speak. “Why let him live?”

Grimaud eyed him suspiciously, eventually making a decision. Casually leaning against the wall, he answered. “Rochefort was utterly mad and I couldn't care less why he did what he did or if Autriche lived or died. But Jussac was also a great strategist, and he seldom did things without purpose. He left orders how to deal with Monsieur Autriche and his wife should anything happen to him. And something happened indeed, as you know. It was a piece of cake to follow his instructions, I simply had to check on the faithless husband now and then and pay the keepers. And it paid off in end, didn't it?”

Aramis remained quiet and waited for the other man to carry on.

“Even after his death he can cause you hassle and pain. I like that. He was really a man of great far-sightedness,” Grimaud gloated. Cheerfully he clapped his hands together and started rubbing them. “But as entertaining as this all is, I need the key. And you will be the one to deliver it to me.”

“I don't know what key you're talking about. Rochefort left no key, at least not with us. I have never seen such a key.”

“No, I guess you haven't. If anyone is in possession of this key it would be Athos. It would be like him to keep it hidden in his safe, without telling someone.”

Aramis gasped, rapidly blinking away the tears that gathered in his eyes as he shifted his weight and his ankles protested painfully. “Athos has no such key, I would know. There is no key. Why do you think any of us would have it at all? Everything in Rochefort’s possession was seized by the police.”

With two quick strides Grimaud came face to face with Aramis. “Because the police report lists no key in Rochefort’s possession after his death. Either one of you stole it while you were alone with him at the Louvre or Tréville took it. However, I don't think the latter is the case, Tréville has always been too honourable to break any law. This leaves the four of you.” Grimaud slowly unsheathed the knife from where it was attached to his belt.

“And what if Rochefort didn't take it with him to the Louvre? What if he hid it somewhere? What's so important about this key anyway?”

Grimaud stared at Aramis for a moment. “That's none of your business, but I'm in the mood to tell you anyway. You won't live long enough to tell anyone.” He slid the tip of the knife along Aramis' jawline, cutting him lightly, but deep enough that the gash started bleeding. “Rochefort foolishly accepted funds from some terrorist group in return for blowing up the Louvre. A task he didn't manage to accomplish, thanks to you. And now they want the money back and they’ve started bothering _me_. And I want my share of it; Rochefort owes me. The money's due to me! That's why I need access to the damn safety deposit box and the papers there. And you're the one to give it to me.”

Aramis was stunned. “And Autriche? How does he fit into all this?” he rasped.

Suddenly, Grimaud's face was taut with anger. “Autriche was Rochefort's project, not mine. I don't care about Autriche! I only want what's mine!” Grimaud placed the tip of the knife against the soft skin just beneath Aramis' Adam's apple. A tiny move and Aramis' windpipe would have an additional exit. “Where is it!”

“You can cut me to pieces, and I still don't know it. We don't have it!”

Grimaud lowered the knife and cut Aramis' upper arm, deeper now than the previous incision.

Aramis hissed.

“I need this key. Islamic terrorists are not ones to be trifled with. They want their money back.”

Aramis could hear desperation behind the words, he felt the great pressure Grimaud was under and realized the deadly peril he was in, greater than he'd originally thought. Grimaud was as malicious and dangerous as he had been back in Louis' time. But now he was under enormous strain, too. “I don't have it,” he whispered.

“No, but one of you has. Call Athos. He'll come to rescue you.” Grimaud fished a mobile out of his pocket.

“No.” Aramis felt a tremble running up his legs, spreading until his whole body shivered. It was from exhaustion and the beginning of a fever, not from fear.

Another slash was added to the flesh. “Call him.”

Aramis remained silent. He had been tortured before and would endure this, too.

Grimaud continued cutting through skin and flesh and not once did a groan escape Aramis' lips. Nevertheless, he was relieved when Grimaud's mobile rang and the man left the cell to take the call. Aramis was still bound with his arms raised high over his head, a posture continuously sending spikes of pain through his body. In the dim glow the low light bulb offered, he watched his blood tripping from various wounds, leaving trails of glittering dark on his clothing. He wasn't in danger of dying of blood loss, not yet. But the rising fever wasn’t contributing to his chances of survival either. The harsh climate and lack of food was doing the rest. He wasn't so sure any more if he would ever leave those walls alive again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

He was startled out of semi-consciousness when the door opened with a loud bang, bouncing back from the stone wall. The brutal force hinted at Grimaud’s anger and impatience. Aramis had lost all feeling in his hands and arms, but his body's ailments were brought back to his mind with cruel harshness now. He didn't know how long he had hung there in a state of drowsiness, barely able to support his body's weight with his too-tightly bound feet. What had been numbed by the state between wakefulness and sleep came back to him with relentless clarity.

“All right, Musketeer, I'm fed up with your stalling tactics!” Grimaud drew a pistol from the holster and chambered a round. “No more lies. Where. Is. The. Key.”

While Aramis was still pondering whether or not he should reply, Grimaud fired.

The bullet hit Aramis in the left thigh. The force of the gunshot yanked Aramis' legs around and, losing what meagre footing he had had, his body weight pulled jerkily and heavily at his bound hands, arms and joints. He fainted from the sudden, multiplied shock waves of pain. A slap to his face brought him back to the present. Aramis groaned. “That really wasn't necessary,” he panted, trying to get his feet under him again.

“I'm done with your lies. You should know I've other ways and means of making people talk. Dying here without telling me what I want to know doesn't help anybody. Especially not your family.”

Aramis' head jerked up, with glassy eyes he stared at Grimaud. “What do you mean by that?”

“It means that you still have a choice. Either you or your Musketeer friends give me what I want or your family will suffer, one by one. I'm not only speaking of your beautiful sister and her pesky children.” Seeing the expression of horror in Aramis' eyes, a sadistic grin spread on Grimaud's face. “Did you really think I would face you without leverage? Imagine the devastation d'Artagnan would experience losing his mother in the same year he had to bury his father. Think of your own poor mother. Anne and little Henri.”

Aramis breathed heavily, now that the first rush of adrenaline and shock had started easing off and the pain spread up his leg like flames licking through dry brushwood. “I don't know anything, Grimaud, you must believe me. I've never seen a key in Rochefort's possession. If you ever so much as lay a finger on my family, you'll wish you'd never been born.”

Grimaud laughed sardonically. “You are hardly in a position to threaten me. Plus, you'll be already dead by then.” He drew a cheap mobile from his pocket. “I'm running out of time. Call Athos and tell him to come and bring the key.” Grimaud looked at Aramis expectantly, his fingers hovering over the keypad. “His number.”

Aramis slowly shook his head, gauging the other man's reaction. Hearing Grimaud threaten to harm his family was more than he could bear. He thought of his sister who would have no idea what was going on until it was too late. His mother who would never suspect harm from anyone. He hoped at least Anne and Henri were safe, watched over by Tréville who would hopefully be aware of the danger they were in. Anne would be worried sick by now, not knowing what had happened to him and where he was. But despite all that, he would never betray one of his brothers. “No.”

Grimaud stared at him, a smirk spreading around the corners of his mouth. “You're pathetic. Do you really think I wouldn't have his number already?”

Surprised, and unable to choke his curiosity, Aramis mumbled, “Why haven't you called him already then?” His sight was clouded as if mist had suddenly risen from the ground in the small dungeon and he tried to blink it away. The pain was pulsing through his body like rivers of lava. He could not remember ever having experienced such agony, though somewhere in his mind he knew he had been shot more than once in his old Musketeer days. He just had to focus on staying conscious and suppressing the pain.

“The game, my friend. The game. Where'd be the fun in it?” Grimaud's fingers danced over the keypad, pushing buttons. “I have a knack for torturing, I just can't help it.” He held the mobile towards Aramis, his other hand coming up with the weapon. The dark and deadly muzzle pointed at Aramis' face, only inches away from the bruised brow. “Now, tell him to come and bring what I want.”

The call was answered and Athos' muted voice sounded through the speaker. “Hello?”

Aramis glowered at Grimaud, his pale, maltreated and sweat-covered face glistening under the dim light. Holding the other's gaze, he said, without blinking, “Fuck off, Grimaud.”

A second later, another shot rang through the small prison cell, its echo resounding deafeningly from the cold and damp stone walls.


	11. Beyond Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a short moment, the horror of what he had just heard threatened to overwhelm Athos and his heartbeat quickened, fuelled by the sudden burst of adrenaline. His limbs turned cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been pointed out to me that some readers might not approve of my use of the f* word in the last chapter. It was not my intention to annoy readers and I apologise to anyone who doesn't approve of it. I had given the matter a lot of thought before posting if I would let Aramis choose this kind of wording and in German I would have chosen another term, but I couldn't find a fitting equivalent in English to show what Aramis wanted to express. Hence, the use of the f* word. In this moment, Aramis is under great pain, he can't think clearly anymore, but he is well aware that his decision to not let himself be used as tool to lure Athos to Grimaud's hiding place, is equivalent to a death sentence. He has only a few, last words to hurl at Grimaud and he's channelling all his feelings from the last few weeks + the current state he's in into these words. So I'm sure even Aramis would choose an expression more rude than 'damn you' or 'back off' or something. 
> 
> Also, another reader pointed out to me that in the light of recent events like in Manchester I might want to add terrorism, Islamic terrorists or the like to the tags. I did, just to be on the safe side and so that readers can decided if they want to read on, but there's really not much mention of it in this story and far less from what we read in the papers every day. There'll be a graphic scene in one of the following chapters relating to terrorists, but I'll give a special warning in the chapter then.

Athos stared at his phone. He had heard Aramis' voice, and a shot, and then someone – most likely Grimaud – hissing “Bloody Musketeers”. After that, the line had gone dead. Athos hit redial and the call was answered almost immediately. 

Before Athos could say anything, Grimaud spoke. “Come and bring what is mine. Then you can collect your dead comrade.” Grimaud hung up without giving Athos a chance to reply or ask something.

For a short moment, the horror of what he had just heard threatened to overwhelm Athos and his heartbeat quickened, fuelled by the sudden burst of adrenaline. His limbs turned cold. The shot he'd heard and Grimaud's words left him rooted to the spot, his hand clenching the mobile. Eventually, he forced himself to calm down and sort his thoughts. He flexed his fingers and told himself that Aramis was not dead, he outright refused to believe it. Aramis _couldn't_ be dead and he wasn't willing to even consider such a thing or let his thoughts stray further into that direction. He looked down at the mobile in his hand. 

He had no idea what Grimaud meant when he'd said to bring what was his, nor did he know where to go. Athos' thumb hovered over the redial button, but he knew calling back would be fruitless. An idea formed in his head, a sudden notion where Grimaud might have taken Aramis and Athos cursed through gritted teeth for not having thought of it before. In any case, it was his best chance and he hoped against hope that it was not already too late. Grabbing what he'd need for the drive, Athos rushed through the office, wondering if he should call one of the others, or Tréville, and at least tell them where he was heading. Finally, carelessly, resolutely, he decided against it. He was sure it was Grimaud's plan to separate them and haul Athos in on his own. He would do Grimaud the favour. The others had more important tasks to see to, making sure their friend's beloved ones were safe.

He intentionally disregarded the small voice in his head telling him he was deceiving himself.

He scribbled a note for Charlène who had gone to do some Christmas shopping during her lunch break, informing her he'd be away for the rest of the day. Constance had been ordered to stay at home until the case was solved, and would therefore be safe, so Charlène would have to hold the fort alone now. The elder secretary had refused to shy away from any danger and had insisted on doing her job as usual, muttering that she had worked under worse conditions before.

Like Porthos, d'Artagnan had been torn between leaving Paris to get his mother out of harm's way, and staying where he could continue the search for Aramis and protect Constance if need be. D'Artagnan had finally agreed to go to Lupiac after Athos had asked Tréville if Constance could join Anne in the safe place only he knew of. Tréville had picked up the young woman in the afternoon and confirmed her safe accommodation even before d'Artagnan had reached his home in Gascony.

Since Athos had spoken to Porthos and d'Artagnan that morning, he hoped they wouldn't call again later unless there was an emergency; this would leave him enough time for his undertaking without worrying them. Both his friends had been delayed with their flights the previous day due to a snowstorm that had hit the airport, but both had reached their destination by evening. On arrival, Aramis' family as well as d'Artagnan's mother had been unharmed, and Athos was sure as long as Porthos and d'Artagnan were with them, they would be safe.

Athos checked his pistol once again and tucked it into the holster, stuffing an extra magazine into his pocket. Then he left the office.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“Why didn't you kill me?” Aramis was panting. The shot had only grazed his head, just above his left ear, it had not even hit his skull. But his ears were ringing from the close discharge of the weapon and the grazing shot had increased his headache, pounding like a sledge hammer inside his head. He felt blood seep into his shirt collar. 

Grimaud gazed coldly at Aramis. “I'm not sure if I'd get what I want if he finds you already dead. Among the lot of you there's a sickeningly overwhelming willingness to take the bullet for each other. He will go to great lengths if he thinks he can still save you.”

“You know _nothing_ of us, Grimaud.”

“Sleep well,” Grimaud said, hitting the marksman hard on the temple with the butt of his pistol.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos cautiously approached the ruins where Grimaud had held Aramis captive once before, almost 400 years ago. He had left the car behind at the end of the dirt road, hoping his intuition had been right and his march was not in vain now. The bad weather conditions had cost him more time than hoped-for and the drive had taken over three hours. It was late afternoon and the sun was on the verge of disappearing behind the trees, lengthening the shadows that covered whatever was hiding in the building. Time and weather had further contributed to the decay of the ruins and some of the walls that had been standing in the time of Louis XIII were gone, while others had been erected, more clumsily, less solid. A cottage had been added to one of the walls, more shelter than hut, made from brick and mud, but parts of it had collapsed, too. He could see neither cars nor movement on the outside. 

When he stepped through the inner wall's archway, Grimaud stood opposite, already awaiting him, his hand firmly gripping the pistol. “And so, we meet again.”

“I could've done without the pleasure. Where is Aramis?”

Grimaud grinned, and Athos realized in the tiny fraction of time before he was hit on the back of his head and his vision blackened, that he had walked right into Grimaud's trap like a green novice.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos recovered his senses the moment he was pushed headfirst into a dark void, hurtling through the air like a puppet. 

Pure instinct made him bring up his hands and feet in time to soften the landing, though he only just managed to save his face from making contact with the floor. Immediately he felt the rising cold. He pushed away from the damp soil, slowly coming to his full height, careful to not bump his head on a low ceiling. He stood still, listening for any sound, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. No sliver of light cut through the darkness and he wondered if this was a window-less room deep beneath the earth's surface where no light ever shone. Before his eyes finally adjusted to the dark and could make out a slight difference in the various states of blackness, he heard something and held his breath. Again, he heard it, a distant wheezing sound, like wind rustling through the high vaults of a barn. Only, it was not a faraway sound coming from above, it came from close beside him. All of a sudden, he realized it was the sound of someone’s, or _something’s_ , laboured breathing, rattling and weak. He waited longer, listening to the repeated wheezing, the harsh sound of breath drawn in with great effort and pushed out again far too soon. Someone was with him in the room, and that person was far from being well. He was certain he already knew who it was.

A few feet away from him, down at nearly floor level, he could make out a rectangle that was a little lighter than the rest of the darkness, but however hard he tried, he couldn't make out anything else, neither form nor figure. Athos lowered himself to his knees again and called softly, “Aramis? Is that you?” When no response came, he slowly made his way into the direction the breathing sound was coming from. Soon his fingers brushed over something soft and warm. He hesitated before running his fingers up and down on whatever it was he had found. Very quickly his guess was confirmed, someone lay on the floor, remaining unaffected by his probing and patting, and the person was breathing. _Still living, then._

“Aramis,” Athos tried again, convinced it was their missing friend he had found. Athos' fingers continued moving up and down, taking in the sticky liquid that covered fabric and skin, the heat and the sweat covering the body. When he came across a warm pool of liquid, sticky and viscous under the touch of his fingers, that had gathered under Aramis's left thigh, his heart dropped further. Carefully he followed the trail of dried and half-dried blood and found its cause. A wound, probably a gunshot, probably at close range. The leg under his hand twitched and he noticed a change in the rhythm of the laboured breathing. “Aramis?” 

The breathing stopped. Then, quietly, “Athos?”

“I'm here, my friend. How are you?”

There was another noisy intake of breath. “I'm f--”

“And don't say fine, I've had time to examine your body.”

“Athos,” Aramis tutted with a weak and coughing laugh, “I can't believe you took advantage of my current situation.”

Aramis couldn't see the smile spreading on Athos' face, but there was a hint of it in his tone. “How bad?”

Briefly, Aramis weighed possible answers before he replied honestly, “Baddish.”

“Do you think you can walk? Have you been shot? I heard a shot over the phone.”

Before Aramis could reply, they heard noises from the entrance and a moment later the door swung open. A glimmer of light fell into the room and Athos seized the moment and took a closer look at his friend. His eyes roamed over the injured body, taking note of the big wound at the thigh, the colourful bruises and ugly cuts, the split lip and puffy eye, the unnaturally swollen wrists, bound by handcuffs, the rope around the ankles, the wet and blood-smeared hair plastered to Aramis' face and the sheen of sweat covering the skin.

“A heart-warming scene,” Grimaud commented without any warmth to his voice. “How touching.”

Athos looked Aramis straight in the eye for a few seconds before slowly turning around to face Grimaud.

“Have you brought the key? Where is it?”

“Of course I brought it, do you take me for a fool?” Athos replied without the slightest hesitation.

Aramis felt a stab of betrayal piercing his heart, but he dismissed it before it could settle. He turned his gaze on Grimaud.

Grimaud stretched his hand towards Athos, taking one step into the cell. “Give it to me.”

“I'm not that stupid. I've brought it, but it's not here. You would already have found it when you searched me.”

An acknowledging grin spread on Grimaud's face upon Athos' cognizance that he had been searched thoroughly while he was unconscious. He had expected no less from the former regiment's captain. “There are two possibilities. You tell me where it is and I fetch it. Or I give Aramis the choice to decide which of his beloved ones my men should shoot first. It's only a phone call away. And then he'll get a bullet between his eyes himself. Oh,” Grimaud added, putting his index finger to his lips in a gesture of contemplation. “Naturally, if he can't decide, I'll do it for him. So, no point in stalling. The key, Athos. Now.”

“It's in my car. Driver's door compartment. Small, unlabelled blue envelope. The car's at the end of the dirt road to the east, you can't miss it. You've already relieved me of the car keys, so don't let me keep you.”

Grimaud studied Athos for a moment. “If I don't find it there, I'll shoot him and let you listen over the phone to his sister begging and screaming when she sees her kids die. And then I'll have a go at you.” He turned and left the cell.

“You have the key?” Aramis croaked as soon as the door shut, keeping any emotion whatsoever away from his voice.

“Of course not, I've absolutely no idea what he's talking about.”

“But you just said....”

“He asked and I gave the answer he obviously expected. My car is about one and a half kilometres away at the end of the forest road, that'll give us roughly a quarter hour to escape.”

Aramis laughed and shook his head, trying to get up from the floor. “And how do you plan to do that? This door is solid, and I'm sure he's not alone.”

“He isn't, there's at least one other man here with him,” Athos replied. “Wait. Let's get you out of the handcuffs first.” Athos slipped out of one of his boots, producing a tiny key he had kept hidden there. A short moment later the handcuffs snapped open, releasing Aramis' abused wrists.

“Where did you get this key from?” Aramis asked astonished.

“Police standard key. I had hoped that if you'd be handcuffed it would be the handcuffs Marcheaux had used. Or at least a pair Grimaud had stolen from police stocks. Believe it or not, all handcuffs in use by the Paris police prefecture have the same key. Piece of cake.”

Aramis started fumbling with the ropes around his ankles, but his numb fingers failed to have any success.

Athos took over in trying to unravel the knots but was equally unsuccessful. “We'll need a knife for those. It can wait for a moment. Come,” he said, aiding his friend when he made a move to rise. “Easy, you're not in the best of shapes, if I'm not mistaken.”

“Your observation skills are amazing, _mon ami._ ” Aramis groaned from the effort of getting up.

“You've no idea,” Athos muttered, supporting his friend's weight with his left shoulder. “There, can you keep upright for a moment if you brace yourself against the wall?”

Aramis nodded, his face bathed in sweat. Heavily he leaned against the cold stones.

Athos checked his watch. Four minutes had passed since Grimaud had left the cell. “Hey, Grimaud,” Athos shouted on top of his lungs, “I forgot to tell you to switch off the self-destruct mechanism before you open the car door!” He waited a few seconds, then called again. “Grimaud, do you hear me?”

They could hear shuffling outside and a moment later the door opened, revealing a hulk of a man under the archway. He had a pistol pointed at Athos. “What's all the shouting?”

“You're not Grimaud,” Athos said in a deadpan voice.

A flicker of uncertainty flashed over the man's face.

Aramis had to suppress a snicker.

“Hey, Grimaud,” Athos said, gazing past the huge man who blocked two thirds of the door.

Surprised, the man turned his head to see whom Athos was talking to.

Within a fraction of a second Athos covered the short distance and aimed a karate chop to the man's neck, felling him immediately. The man dropped to the ground like a puppet cut from its strings. Athos turned and smirked at Aramis. “It always works.” He wrenched the pistol from the unconscious man's hand, grabbed his arms and dragged him into the room. He regarded the body in front of him for a moment. “I know I'll regret it later, but I have qualms about shooting an unconscious man.”

“At least use the handcuffs.”

Athos nodded and grabbed the handcuffs from the floor. He searched the man's pockets and produced, with a grin on his face, a Swiss Army knife. “Here.” He handed it to Aramis who cut through the ropes around his feet while Athos handcuffed the unconscious man.

When Aramis came up he swayed dangerously, groping at the wall for support. The movement had made him dizzy, dark spots danced before his eyes like flies in the summer sun.

“Wait,” Athos said, about to walk over to help Aramis. He was stopped part-way by a sound coming from the open door. Turning, he brought up the pistol in his hand a fraction too slowly. The shots fired almost simultaneously and Athos was hit in the shoulder a split second before his bullet reached its goal and killed the man who had appeared so unexpectedly in the door frame, with a shot through the heart.

“Bloody damn...”, Athos cursed, gripping his shoulder. “I didn't reckon on another one so fast.”

“ _Merde alors!_ ” Aramis wobbled towards Athos.

“We have to hurry now, Grimaud will have heard the shots and will come back before he has reached the car. Can you walk?” Athos abandoned gripping the entry wound on his shoulder and stuffed the pistol into his pocket. He started pulling the jacket from the dead man. A long-sleeve T-shirt was revealed, slowly soaking with blood, and Athos ripped at it with brutal force until it tore and he managed to pull it off completely, albeit in shreds. “Go,” he urged Aramis, shoving him out of the door. On his way out, Athos frantically searched for the handgun that must have fallen from his opponent's hand when he had been hit, but he couldn't find it in the dim light. Cursing, he stopped searching and hurried after Aramis. One weapon would have to suffice.

They turned left and followed a low corridor, finally coming to an unlocked door leading to the back of the complex. The forest stood dark and dense, slightly sloping up before them. The sun had set and it was almost dark. They could just make out shadows of trees and bushes, silhouetted against the darkening sky. “Go!” Athos urged again, leading the way into the thick underbrush.

Mobilizing his last, practically non-existing energy reserves, Aramis stumbled after Athos. From afar they could hear rustling and twigs snapping under someone's feet, someone who was evidently running fast. They knew who was after them. They had three or four minutes' narrow lead, and it would shrink soon. With the noises they were making, Grimaud would easily be able to follow them. Nevertheless, they pushed on.

Whether Grimaud had decided not to follow them immediately or was sneaking up on them soft-footed and with a stealth they stood no chance against, they did not know; however hard they tried, they heard no sound any more coming after them. They slogged along for more than twenty minutes, in great pain, always uphill, without encountering Grimaud. Athos didn't trust the fortune they might be favoured by, he was sure it was a trick. 

After another five minutes of panting and stumbling through the forest, Aramis, leaning heavily on Athos' good shoulder, announced, “We need to bandage your wound.”

Athos stopped and looked around as well as he could in the thick darkness. The moon stood low, spreading only sparse light over the trees and brushes, but it was reflected by the snow covering the landscape, and so there was enough light to make out a couple of shrubby mountain pines standing close enough to make a suitable cover. “Over there.”

They slumped down, panting heavily with pain and exhaustion. “Here.” Athos thrust the jacket he had dragged along into Aramis' hands. “Put that on before you freeze to death. With the shirt, we can make a makeshift bandage. You'll need to bandage your leg.”

Aramis laughed hollowly. “I'll see to your shoulder first, then we can look at my thigh. It's not so bad, really.” Aramis had great problems shrugging into the jacket, he was shivering so hard it took him almost a minute to get his arms into the sleeves.

“Where do you think he is? Why is he not following us?” Aramis asked while busying himself with Athos' shoulder. He examined the gunshot wound as best as he could under these conditions. Not seeing much in the falling night, he had palpated and probed as much as his shaking fingers had allowed. It looked like a clean through-and-through wound, much like his own leg wound, and Athos had confirmed that despite the soaring pain it didn't feel as if a bone or muscle had been shattered. Or if either had happened, the older man had added, then there was only minor muscle damage. Aramis firmly pressed folded cloth from the dead man's shirt onto the exit wound and wrapped the longest shred around to keep the makeshift pressure bandage in place.

“I don't know. Maybe he didn’t hear us running away and checked on the cell first. Maybe he waited for his companion to come to again before coming after us. Or maybe he has just decided to let us run away. He probably knows this area better than we do and knows we don't stand much chance. If he waits until daybreak and comes after us with more men, he will have a better chance than he has now.”

“We should try to reach your car.”

“There's no point in that. By now it will not be where I left it, or if it is, it’ll have flat tires.”

“It has a first aid kit.”

“Yes, but it would also mean bumping into Grimaud.”

“I know.” Aramis sighed. “How much time has passed since I was captured?”

Athos looked up, trying so see his friend's expression which was hard to read in the pale light the moon provided. “Four days, almost five now. Why?”

For a moment, only Aramis' chattering teeth could be heard.

Finally, Aramis asked surprised, “So long? I thought it was two days, three at the most. I must have been unconscious more often than I thought.”

Athos didn't like what he had heard, but didn't remark on it. He used the last of the shirt's shreds to cover Aramis' leg wound, securing the bandage with his belt which he had taken off with some difficulty. “It's not the most suitable way to treat a wound but it'll have to do.”

“What about Anne? Henri? Are they--”

“They're safe. Tréville is looking after them, guarding them with his life. You know what a fantastic bodyguard he is. There’s no need to worry, he saved the lives of Anne and your son more than once.”

“Yes, that he has. They could not wish for a better protector,” Aramis said fondly. “I'm worried about my sister, though. Grimaud said--”

“They're also safe,” Athos interrupted. “Porthos is with them, in Spain. He'll see that no harm comes to your family.” Athos reported how Aramis' sister had called, and how they had immediately reacted, realizing that everyone close to them would be in danger, too. “Why else do you think I came on my own? Porthos and d'Artagnan and Tréville are making sure everyone is safe, including Constance.”

“Oh I don't know, maybe because it would be so like you to do something rash and self-sacrificing to save others? You shouldn't have come,” Aramis added quietly, seriously.

“No, probably not. Now we're both sitting here in the cold, feeling miserable, injured and with little chance of surviving the night, when I could be ensconced in my chair right now watching telly. Silly me,” Athos dead-panned.

They sat in silence for a while until Athos announced, “We need to get further away if we want to stand a chance against Grimaud. We've the Swiss Army knife and probably nine shots left, if the magazine was full,“ Athos added, eyeing the Glock in his hand, one of the smaller versions with less ammunition in the magazine. “It's not much, but we've had less.”

Aramis grunted. He knew his fever had now risen to an alarming degree. The biting air created the impression that he was cool and shivering from cold, but his skin was burning. Along with the lack of food and drink and the blood loss from the shotgun wound, not to mention the nagging pain, it left him in a rather poor condition. But none of this would stop him from staggering after Athos for as long as it took until they were either safe or confronted by Grimaud. Or until one of them had no strength any more to go on.

After three-quarters of an hour of stumbling and slipping through the dark forest, a bank of clouds robbed them of what little light the moon had provided. Even before the disappearance of the last moonbeams, rotting leaves and cones under the fresh snow had made it hard to move, their feet had slipped every third or fourth step, always jolting their wounds; now their vision was practically non-existent, making moving on almost unbearable. The wind had increased, bringing with it piercing cold and more snow from the north. It howled through the trees and tugged at their clothes.

“Athos,” Aramis wheezed.

Athos immediately stopped a few paces in front of Aramis and turned. He knew exactly what the other was about to say.

“I can't go on any more. Leave me behind and move on, try to get yourself into safety. I'm sorry." Aramis gasped for breath. "There's no use beating around the bush, I'm finished. Leave me here, it's your only chance if you want to survive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea where Aramis' captivity in S3Ep8 'Prisoners of War' took place. I picked an area close to the Belgian border, which, in the times of Louis XIII, was Spanish Netherlands. It makes sense to me that the exchange of the Spanish soldiers would have taken place somewhere near the Spanish border, and Spain itself was for obvious reasons too far away for the short ride/drive the Musketeers undertook, respectively the rides Aramis undertook to hand over the negotiation notes from Anne to her brother. Hence the assumed proximity of the place to the Spanish Netherlands/Belgian border (in this story located in the _parc naturel régional de l'Avesnois_ ).


	12. Brothers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don't, Aramis. If you fall asleep you'll never wake up again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really meant to post this a day or two earlier, but circumstances didn't permit, so Athos and Aramis had to endure the cold winter's night a little longer. Sorry. ;-)

Athos was by Aramis' side in two quick strides, stopping his friend from sinking down on the snow-covered forest floor. “Not here. Come.” Athos slung Aramis' arm around his shoulder, regardless of his own injury, and dragged him for a few meters until they reached a place that was shielded by a piece of rock on one side with a few thick bushes left and right of the boulder. It was not much, but provided at least some cover from possible trackers and kept off the wind. A big pine with spreading branches had kept the floor fairly dry and almost free of snow. By a lucky coincidence they had found the place just as Aramis' strength had yielded to his injuries.

“There, lean against the rock, it will be easier.” Athos helped a violently shivering Aramis down to the ground, then slumped down beside him, moving closer to share their body heat.

Aramis had his eyes closed and didn't bother to open them when he spoke. “Go now. You know it's the only option. Find help and come back.” The exhaustion took its toll and the words came out not as convincingly as planned, revealing with its timbre the hollow lie behind. No help for Aramis would arrive back in time. By now, the temperature had dropped way below zero. In such poor condition, loosing blood again from the reopened wound and the fever still rising, he would barely survive the night, and deep inside both men knew it. What Aramis didn't know for sure and only guessed was that it would take hours, on foot, to reach the next hamlet and ask for help and backup. Like in the old times, the abandoned former hunting lodge stood kilometers away from the next occupied building, in the middle of the natural preserve _de l'Avesnois_ , widespread and sparsely populated.

Athos, on the other hand, knew for sure; remembering his long drive through forest and meadow until he had finally reached his goal, he knew they were in the middle of nowhere. He neither replied nor moved, apart from readjusting a little to sit more comfortably on the cold ground. The thick carpet of needles on moss-covered ground helped him to ignore the small, sharp rocks, the pine cones and twigs sticking out of the hard-frozen soil.

“Athos,” Aramis urged, more determinedly.

“Will you stop now, for God's sake?” Athos said in a low voice. “Do you really want to debate this or just do both of us the favor of saving time and energy and accepting the fact that I won't leave you? If we go down, we'll go down together.”

Aramis hadn't expected any less from Athos, but it didn't mean he had to like it. Debating with himself for a moment, he finally decided to let the issue drop. No matter what he said, it would have been wasted words. Athos would not be persuaded otherwise.

Athos waited a moment, but when there was no clever comeback from Aramis he moved away from the feverish man and got up. “Wait a second.” He crawled forward on all fours, skinning his hands and knees on small stones and ice, and the movement caused searing pain to spread in his throbbing shoulder again, which he duly ignored. When he had found what he was looking for he scooped a handful of fresh snow and moved back to Aramis. “Here.” He held his hands to Aramis' face, urging the other to take in the cold snow. Taking the chance that it might be dirty, contaminated with germs, pine needles or animal muck, it would deliver vital liquid though. And it might help bring the fever down, though there would never be enough snow for Aramis to get down his parched throat to compensate for the fluid loss he had suffered over the recent days and which the fever was still wringing from his body.

“Can you get more?” Aramis asked once he was finished. “That's a relief.”

Athos repeated the procedure twice, eating some of the snow, too, to quench his thirst, before he stopped. “It's enough. Your stomach won't be able to take more of it. Later you can have another handful.”

“Thanks,” Aramis replied, closing his eyes. He rested his head back against the cold stone.

For a while, no one spoke.

“It's not fair,” Aramis finally said.

Athos could hear the pain and exhaustion Aramis' voice carried, muting the tone, leaving no space for the usual charming witticism.

“Soon it'll be Christmas, and I will not be there. Will never be there. It would have been nice, just once, to spend Christmas with Anne and my son.” Aramis turned his head fractionally so he could just glimpse at his friend beside him in the dark. “He _is_ my son.”

“Henri?”

“Yes. We believe he's reborn, too. It may be wishful thinking, but I'm convinced of it. I can feel it. And even if he's not, it doesn't matter. He is my son.”

Aramis breathed heavily, though whether it was because of pain or emotion Athos didn't know. He turned his head to take a closer look at his friend, trying to make out anything in the darkness that lay over the forest like a thick blanket, barring the moonlight. The moon had disappeared behind a bank of clouds again and the temperature had dropped further with the north wind still whirling snowflakes over the ground. 

“I'm sorry for this mess,” Athos said. “I was caught unaware by Grimaud's helpers, I had not planned this through thoroughly. I have to admit I let the hatred I still feel for Grimaud get the better of me. This was probably the most ill-conceived and rash rescue attempt I've ever made. Forgive me.”

Aramis snorted weakly. “That coming from a man who invaded Afghanistan. Never mind! It nearly worked. It was just bad luck the second guy showed up when he did. It's the thought that counts.”

“I should have waited for backup. Porthos told me so. At least, I should have told Tréville before running off on a wild-goose chase. I thought I had this under control. Instead, I did exactly as Grimaud had planned, running right into his trap. And now look at us. Somewhere in the middle of nowhere, injured, ill-equipped, no plan and exposed to this bloody freezing cold.” The more he spoke the angrier Athos got with himself. How could he have been so stupid, so blinded by hate, channelled by arrogance that he had walked right into Grimaud's trap? Instead of saving Aramis he had ensured exactly the opposite, contributing to the other's potential death.

“Somehow or other, we're still soldiers. Soldiers die. For their king, for their country. For those they love. You of all people know this best,” Aramis replied softly. “It's okay, it just would have been nice.....” He trailed off. No need to point it out again.

“We'll get moving as soon as the first sliver of light is visible. If Grimaud has not found us by then, we stand a chance. Maybe he even left, or is searching in a completely different direction. I studied the maps. We went north, north-east and we should almost be on top of the hill that stretches behind the hunting house. If we turn due west from the highest point, there's a good chance we hit the road between Bavay and Poix-du-Nord. We can try to stop a car there, call help.”

Aramis didn't reply. He was convinced for him there was no tomorrow. But he would try. If not for him, then at least for Anne and Henri.

“We must stay awake. If we sleep, we'll freeze to death. Let's talk,” Athos said. His shoulder felt like a balloon on fire, with every heartbeat pain was pulsing through his body.

“Let me just nap for a moment, I'm tired to my bones.”

“Don't, Aramis. If you fall asleep you'll never wake up again. Tell me about your sister. It seems she knows a lot about us, but you've never told us much about your family. Is she younger or older than you?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos was startled out of his doze by the sound of Aramis talking. His head jerked up, shocked he had obviously fallen asleep for a moment, despite his effort to keep them both awake. He had no idea how much time had passed since he had last spoken to Aramis, telling the other of his time in the Helmand province in Afghanistan. He waggled his feet, but couldn't feel them any more. He was sure he had never been so cold in his life. 

“Can Samarra be avoided, I wonder?” Aramis mumbled into the quietness, almost inaudibly as if he was speaking to himself. “I always thought it was just a, you know, parable.”

“What?” asked Athos, completely aroused from his stupor now, frowning. _What was Aramis talking about?_

“Did you know I had a dog?”

“What?” Athos asked again. “Is it the dog's name, Samarra?”

“Samarra? No, we called him Napoléon. He never learned tricks, however hard I tried. Maybe it was the water.”

“ _What_ are you talking about?” Athos had the feeling his friend's feverish mind was starting to lose it. “This makes no sense.”

“The..., the thing,” Aramis replied impatiently. “You know, right? What was it we always called d'Artagnan?”

“Pup?” Athos suggested hesitantly, referring to Aramis' earlier mention of a dog.

“Right.”

“Aramis, you're talking nonsense, you're aware of this, right?”

“Am not. No.” There was a short pause until Aramis added, “Yeah, I guess I am. Was I talking about Napoléon? My head feels like a fluffy cloud of cotton wool. But I think the fever's going down. I'm really, really cold. It's a good sign, isn't it?”

Athos' heart dropped a little further. He reached over to touch his friend's forehead, already knowing from the heat Aramis was emitting and which kept Athos' torso almost cosy and warm at his friend's side, that the fever had, if anything, only increased over the last couple of hours. Nevertheless, he was shocked when he felt the fire burning on Aramis' forehead. It felt impossibly hot, given the surrounding temperature was minus ten degrees Celsius or more. Aramis above all should know that feeling really cold while suffering from high fever was never a good sign. “I'm afraid it isn't, _mon ami,_ ” Athos replied gently and grabbed Aramis' hands, which lay lifeless in the other's lap. They felt like frozen stone. Athos started rubbing them as well as his numb fingers allowed it. The movement flared up the lessened pain in his shoulder, but he couldn't care less about it at that moment.

“I'm glad you're here, Athos,” Aramis slurred, his lips and jaw joints uncooperative, the muscles stiff from the cold. His tone went up half an octave when he continued. “I'm glad to be with you, here at the end of all things.”

Athos snorted. “Don't take me for a fool, my friend. You've stolen that line from Tolkien.”

If he had had the energy for it, Aramis would have raised his head in surprise, but as it was he had no strength left, nearly not even for replying. “You read Lord of the Rings?” he whispered in wonder.

Athos shook his head, though Aramis couldn't see it. “No. I merely happened to stumble upon it on a very lonely evening when I was in a very gloomy mood. I watched the movie after I had zapped through the programmes up and down and finally got stuck with it. So, if you want to exchange a few sentimental parting lines with me, be witty and don't steal them,” Athos said fondly, still rubbing Aramis' hands.

Aramis chuckled but the chuckling immediately turned into coughing. He replied once the fit was over. “Very well. I'm glad you're here with me.” His weak voice grew more serious. “I should have died in the woods in Savoy 400 years ago. I've lived on borrowed time ever since, back then as well as now. No escape from death.” He was interrupted from another fit of coughing. “I'm glad I'm not alone, Athos. I consider it an honor to have once again been allowed to call you friend and brother.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Aramis. There's no place I'd rather be at the moment than by your side.”

“Then you're a fool,” Aramis replied with a warmth to his voice that belied his words. “I only wished I had--” he said, but broke off when his feelings threatened to get the best of him.

“Not all hope is lost,” Athos rasped, willing every ounce of warmth and hope and conviction that was left in him to carry his words.

“Once again, I'm not allowed to see him grow up,” Aramis whispered. “Just when I'd thought I –. Just when--. It's being taken from me again.”

For a long, desperate moment Athos was lost for words. Then he pulled himself together and swallowed the knot in his throat. “I know it won’t be much consolation, but haven’t we conquered death once before? Do you not think we can do it again?”

“And if we do, who knows if I'll meet them again? What of all the years I'll have to live alone again, without them in my life? Without all of you?”

“I know. But this doesn’t have to be the end. And if it is, at least neither of us is alone.” Athos knew Aramis' chances of survival would drop drastically if he didn't get help very soon, his body had lost too much blood and liquid, not to speak of what internal damage the torture may have left. Aramis had been ill and too weak even before they had taken flight. With no shelter from the cold winter night, there was a good chance Aramis would not wake up again in the morning. And he wouldn't either, if he fell asleep again. Even if he was not as injured and weakened as Aramis was, a night in those freezing cold temperatures would likely be enough to finish him off. Athos took a deep breath. “Besides, don't underestimate Porthos. Do you remember the one time he rode for two days and two nights, using up so many horses on his way Tréville received a dozen requests for compensation the weeks after? He did not once rest and was so worn out people feared he would slip from his horse from exhaustion. But he made it in time to save you.”

Aramis lips curled into the tiniest of smiles. “Yes, I scolded him for mistreating his health, and for being late.”

“You see? Nowadays he would not have to rely on horses; cars and planes are so much faster, you know?”

Aramis nodded a weak consent, though it could very well be that doing so was only in his imagination and he had moved his head not one bit. “Yes, if anyone is persistent, it's Porthos. Still, he won't be able to make it in time.” Aramis voice was almost inaudibly, the words no more than a whisper, carried away by the wind.

_Yes, true,_ Athos thought. He had no idea when Porthos intended to fly back from Spain. When they had talked this morning – which seemed a lifetime away now – he had talked of all the things he needed to organize to keep Aramis' sister and mother safe. It had sounded as if it would take some time. And even if Porthos or d'Artagnan were already back, which he didn't believe, none of them had any clue where he and Aramis were. And, if by some miracle, they reached the same conclusions and started their search in this area, which couldn’t time-wise be before noon, still many hours away from now, the area was too vast to find them in time.

Athos felt Aramis' head sink down on his shoulder and he tightened his embrace, bringing the younger man ever closer to his own body. He could feel the light tremors running through Aramis, the heat emitting him, he heard the tiny, gasping noises, the laboured breathing, plainly giving away just how much pain and distress Aramis was in. And just then Athos could see, with great clarity, death hovering on the fringes of the night, waiting for them. “Maybe he will not, but if we can still see the sun rise by morning, we'll move on nevertheless. And if we don’t wake up, I'm sure we'll meet again,” Athos murmured into Aramis' hair. “I swear to your God, I _will_ find you again.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos jerked awake from a sound he only discerned in its echo, and it took him a moment to get his bearings. He must have fallen asleep again. He panicked. Beside him, Aramis felt cold and lifeless, there was no movement perceptible, and for an awfully long moment Athos was convinced Aramis had passed away while he had slept beside him. Then he heard a hollow rattle from Aramis' chest. _Still alive!_

Stiff and chilled to the bone, Athos tried to move his limbs, his right arm still lying stiffly frozen around Aramis. Startled, he paused in his movement when another shot rang through the night. The sound had come from the left side, not close at hand but somehow nearby nonetheless; it was hard for Athos to judge the distance with its echo bouncing off from the hills. He looked to the side where he thought the shot had come from, trying to hear anything, to see anything. Suddenly, the snapping of twigs, the rustling of leaves could be heard; something crushed through the underbrush and was approaching fast.

“Aramis,” Athos urged in a whisper, trying with stiff fingers and clumsy movement to arouse his friend. “Wake up, come on. I think Grimaud has found us.”

Aramis remained completely unresponsive, not even the slightest sigh or moan escaped the blue-tinged lips, no flutter of eyelids, no hint, that there was still life in his body.

“Come on, wake up!” Athos cursed when his numb fingers failed to grab the pistol he had stuffed into his coat pocket earlier. Clumsily he tried to retrieve it and felt like an idiot for being unable to draw a weapon in the face of danger.

The noise stopped as abruptly as it had started. Through the blood rushing in his ears Athos tried to listen for any sound. Whoever had run through the forest a moment ago was now standing still, probably already taking aim on them. Had they already been detected? But how? Athos could hardly see anything in the darkness and so would anyone else creeping up on them. _Not unless they had night vision goggles_ , came to Athos' mind, and he awaited a bullet's impact any moment. “Aramis,” Athos urged again, but without success. Finally, his hands got a firm grip on his pistol and he yanked it out of his pocket, just as the noise of someone approaching started again. Whoever was coming their way was rapidly closing the distance. Athos brought up his hand with the weapon, vaguely aiming at their pursuer's assumed direction, frantically trying to make something out in the darkness. Just when he thought he spotted a glimmer of light at the forest floor, unexpectedly, there was brightness all around him and Athos was dazzled by the blinding flash that shone directly into his eyes. He aimed at the sudden light's source, his finger tensing up at the trigger, but he hesitated. He hesitated the one second that decides between life and death. One second too long.

“Athos!”

The pistol in Athos' hand shook; from the cold in his fingers, from the tension in his muscles, from the fatigue in his body, from the fear for Aramis, from the shock of suddenly hearing his name shouted by a familiar voice. His mind was certainly playing tricks on him.

The light moved, down and sideways, illuminating Aramis' stiff form, so Athos wasn't completely blinded any more. Through the dots remaining on his retina he could vaguely make out a figure behind the torch's halo and squinted to focus on the dark shadow. 

_“Porthos?”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have never been to the _Parc naturel régional de l'Avesnois_ , and I'm sure it's not as wild and sparsely populated as I describe it, but let's assume it's a big area like a National Park with wild rivers, deep gorges and hills stretching for kilometers without noteworthy dwellings.
> 
>    
> Aramis refers to the narrative “Appointment in Samarra” (see below if you're interested in the story), apparently wondering if it had been his fate all along to die in snow-covered woods, freezing to death. He may have avoided his death in Savoy, but here death is again to finally get him. 
> 
> _There was a merchant in Baghdad who sent his servant to market to buy provisions and in a little while the servant came back, white and trembling, and said ‘Master, just now when I was in the market-place I was jostled by a woman in the crowd and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. She looked at me and made a threatening gesture; now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Samarra and there Death will not find me.’ The merchant lent him his horse, and the servant mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the merchant went down to the market-place and he saw Death standing in the crowd and he went to Death and said, ‘Why did you make a threatening gesture to my servant when you saw him this morning?’ ‘That was not a threatening gesture,’ Death said, ‘It was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in Baghdad, for I had an appointment with him tonight in Samarra.’_


	13. Being Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porthos still had his fingers pressed to Aramis' neck, feeling for the pulse. “Not good, I'd say. He's clammy and cold, his pulse is weak. Aramis, can you hear me? Will you wake up for me?” He tried to arouse his unconscious friend again, gently stroking Aramis' cheeks.

“I've found them,” Porthos said quietly, crossing the distance to the two men on the ground.

Athos, who wondered briefly if Porthos was speaking to himself for he saw no one else nearby, was trying to get his head around the fact that Porthos was here. Right in front of him, kneeling down now before them.

“ _Are you completely out of your bloody mind!?”_ were the next words coming from Porthos and the volume had increased tenfold, despite the two men's proximity. “Didn't I say _Don't do anything on your own?_ What part of it didn't you get? Do you have the first idea how utterly stupid you acted?” Porthos took a deep breath and continued more gently, already touching Aramis' cold skin. “How is he? Is he alive? Aramis, can you hear me?”

“Yes, he's alive, but in a bad shape,” Athos rasped, momentarily taken aback by having his own stupidity thrown so blatantly into his face. Porthos was, after all, right. “How--” he started but was interrupted by a distant sound. Someone else was running towards them. The loudness increased, and a moment later d'Artagnan broke through the shrubbery, bright torchlight blinding Athos once again.

“Oh thank God we found you. Thank God you're alive. Is Aramis alive? Are you okay? No, obviously not, are you injured? What’s wrong with Aramis?” The words tumbled from the young man's mouth like rapid fire, a sure sign of the Gascon's tension and worry. He knelt beside Athos, his hand hovering over the injured shoulder. “Were you shot in the shoulder? There's a lot of blood on your jacket. Are you in pain?”

Athos opened his mouth to answer, but at this moment far away gunfire echoed through the night. He looked quizzically at d'Artagnan, but for once the young man ignored him and turned his eyes on Aramis.

“How is he?” the Gascon asked Porthos.

Porthos still had his fingers pressed to Aramis' neck, feeling for the pulse. “Not good, I'd say. He's clammy and cold, his pulse is weak. Aramis, can you hear me? Will you wake up for me?” He tried to arouse his unconscious friend again, gently stroking Aramis' cheeks.

“We need medical aid immediately!” d'Artagnan demanded loudly. “Two men injured, one unresponsive, presumably bullet wounds, both in critical condition.” He looked at Porthos.

“We need to get him warm, he's frozen stiff. Both of them,” Porthos added with a sideways glance to Athos.

Athos had just noticed the earpieces both men were wearing and the tiny microphones attached to their coat collars. He realized, when he saw d'Artagnan read from his mobile, that the young man was radioing their condition and location to someone.

“We're at N 50° 9' 39.449'' E 3° 42' 53.701''. Hurry, please!“

“How did you find us?” Athos asked. “How, I mean...”

Another volley of gunfire could be heard in the distance, momentarily interrupting Athos, who was having problems articulating understandable words with his stiff jaw muscles.

“And what's going on? Did you find Grimaud? Who is after him? Who is with you?”

Porthos just darted an angry glance at Athos, his left hand cradling Aramis' slack head, his right hand still gently trying to arouse the unconscious man.

“Your wristwatch.”

Athos looked at d'Artagnan, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Your watch. You do know it has a GPS-tracker, right?” d'Artagnan asked.

Athos, who was glad he had managed to master and use five of the 38 functions his watch offered, replied nonchalantly, “Yes, of course am I aware of it, but it needs to be activated to deliver data. And I never activated it, so it makes me wonder how you were able to track down our location with the help of my watch.”

“Um,” said d'Artagnan sheepishly, pushing his wet hair out of his eyes. “Erm, you know, I activated it. When I stayed with you I saw it has GPS function and when it wasn’t activated I thought it would be a good idea to do it.”

“You mean to say you're tracking all my movements?” Athos asked in his ever-stoic voice, despite the anger he felt rising. He knew he shouldn't feel angry and was determined to not let it show. D'Artagnan's act had saved their lives, had helped their friends to track them, but he felt it an intrusion into his private life nonetheless.

“No! Of course not,” d'Artagnan replied hurriedly, “I would never do that! You must believe me. I simply activated it and tried if it worked, if I could access the data if need be. I never tracked you. Not until today. Please, you must believe me.”

“Gentlemen, now's not the time!” Porthos hissed grimly. “D'Artagnan's prudence just saved your ass! Get hold of yourself!”

Athos felt shame and anger flaring up due to the reprimand, but he couldn't bring himself to let the matter rest. “Sorry, I didn't mean to offend you, I should be glad you activated it. It's just that I don't like being observed. As soon as we're back you'll switch the function off, all right?”

D'Artagnan nodded. “Promise.”

“You just can't let it go, right? You can't just admit it _is_ useful to have such a tracker, that it was good d'Artagnan did what he did,” Porthos growled. “For your own sake, you should at least consider activating it when we’re working on cases that tend to cloud your good sense. Like this one.” Porthos' voice gushed with scoff and reproach.

Now Athos glowered at Porthos. “I never let any case cloud my--”

“Stop it, will you?” Aramis' weak and slurred voice was heard through the angry quarrel.

Athos and Porthos immediately stopped, all eyes turning to their ailing friend. Aramis hadn't moved, his eyes were still closed and nothing hinted at him being conscious again.

“Aramis?” Porthos asked softly, stroking his thumb over Aramis' brow. “Are you with us again?”

The hint of a smile graced Aramis' lips. “Porthos?”

“Aye, I'm here and we'll get you out of here. Just hang on a little longer. Help will soon be here.”

No sooner had he uttered the words than the noise of more people approaching could be heard. A moment later the Inseparables were joined by five men from the rescue service, heavily laden with live-saving equipment and portable folding stretchers. They immediately set to work.

Shortly after, Aramis lay on one of the stretchers, wrapped in thermal blankets. He had three different infusion bags attached to his arms and a respiratory mask to his face supporting his slowed respiration. One of the rescuers had dressed the gunshot wound provisionally with a pressure bandage and the doctor was preparing another injection to stabilize the patient for the transport. 

Athos had refused to be laid on a stretcher but had allowed one of the paramedic to redress his shoulder wound and inject him with a small dose of morphine as well as something to stabilize his circulation. In addition, he had accepted a rescue blanket and hot tea from a thermal flask.

“Please, monsieur, I beg you once more, lay down on the stretcher. You're weak, you've lost blood and you have incipient hypothermia. While your condition is not as grave as your friend's, the distance we have to cover is still unsuitable for an injured man like you.”

Athos glowered at the paramedic. Before he could bark another cutting answer, someone else spoke.

“Leave him be. I’ll take responsibility.” Tréville stood at the edge of the area illuminated by multiple torches now. Little white clouds rose from his mouth with each word, mingling with the falling snowflakes. A lopsided grin dominated his face. “It's good to see you, Athos. And it's even better to see you both alive. If I was still your commanding officer you’d be shovelling horse muck for the next month for this.”

Athos looked at his former captain and for the first time in a week a genuine smile appeared on his face. “And rightly so, captain.”

“Doesn't mean I won't have a word with you once we are back in Paris.” Stepping a little closer to the scene, he asked the leader of the rescue team, “Are we ready to leave? The helicopters are waiting.”

The paramedic nodded. “In a minute, sir.”

“Did you catch Grimaud?” d'Artagnan asked.

Tréville shook his head. “No, he escaped, but he's injured, one of the men hit him. Hopefully, he won't get far. One of the teams is chasing him.”

Athos, bursting with curiosity, knew now was neither the time nor place to demand a full report. It would have to wait until they had reached safety, until Aramis had got the proper medical care he needed so urgently. He grabbed the hand d'Artagnan offered willingly and let himself be hauled up by the younger man. A sideways glance to Porthos revealed that the bigger man was obviously still angry with him, so Athos decided to keep his mouth shut on the way back and wait until Porthos' anger had dissipated. Which would likely be the case as soon as Aramis was safe and not in a critical condition anymore.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

At the behest of Tréville, the responsible emergency doctor had given green light for Aramis and Athos' transport back to Paris, instead of rushing them to and treating them at a local hospital. Both men had been stabilized so the helicopters could take them to the capital in less than two hours. 

One hour after they had been admitted to the military hospital _Val-de-Grâce_ in Paris, dawn sent its first rays of light over the Parisian rooftops and Athos was rolled back to his room after surgery. Beside a light hypothermia, he had been diagnosed with a through-and-through wound on his upper left shoulder which had been cleaned, disinfected, stitched and bandaged. Provided with painkillers and an intravenous saline solution, he now lay in his bed and wondered how to get information about Aramis. No sooner had he thought that than his door opened and in marched Tréville, followed by Porthos and d'Artagnan.

“How is Aramis?” Athos asked, even before the men had fully stepped into his room.

“Still in surgery, but his condition is stable. The doctor told me he is not critical any more. As soon as he is out of surgery we can see him,” Tréville answered. “Well, at least Anne might be able to see him. She's waiting at the ICU for him.”

“How are you feeling?” asked Porthos, and it was the first time since they had found Athos and Aramis in the woods, that Porthos had spoken to Athos without suppressed anger or reproaches.

“Like an idiot.”

“Then all's well.”

“Porthos....” Tréville muttered.

“No, he's right. I acted like an idiot and I apologise for my behaviour. I had the best intentions, but when I heard over the phone how Grimaud supposedly shot Aramis, my old resentment got the better of me. I should have planned this through.”

“I'm sure you did in the minutest detail, including the fact that all of us were allegedly unavailable, entrusted with the protection of Aramis' closest family. So I can understand your motivation,” Tréville said. “You still should have let one of us know what your plans were. You had more luck than judgement, but somehow that's something inherent to the four of you ever since you earned your commissions. I'll never understand how it works,” Tréville muttered, shaking his head.

“I walked blindly into Grimaud's trap when I thought I would be able to defeat him.”

“That's why you have me and d'Artagnan, right? It's not the first time we've saved your sorry behind.” Porthos grinned, and it was obvious his earlier ire had gone. “How are you really?”

“I'm okay, the painkillers help. What I don't understand, how could you all be back so fast? I mean, I understand the thing with the tracker, which was, on balance, a damn clever thing to do, d'Artagnan. Thanks,” Athos added quietly, looking at the young man. “When I spoke with you yesterday morning you were both otherwise engaged, a few flight hours away from Paris. There was no word you'd be back before today at the earliest. What happened?”

On the flight back to Paris, Athos had given a short summary about how he and Aramis had been able to escape and what Aramis had reported about Grimaud's assertion and demand for a key. Tréville had nodded, feeling confirmed in his opinion that the men they had spotted with Grimaud at the ruined building could very well be Islamic terrorists. They had certainly not been friends with Grimaud, that much he had realised during the melee. The rest of the flight Athos had spent in a state of drowsiness caused by the morphine. Aramis had remained unconscious during the whole flight.

Porthos grinned. “Damn right, we were all otherwise engaged, at least until Charlène called me after her lunch to tell me she found your note. She read it out to me and we both knew that _out of the office for the rest of the day_ certainly meant something totally different. She's clever, too, you know? She knows you better than you think. Anyway, I immediately called d'Artagnan who logged into the GPS tracker programme and alerted the captain. D'Artagnan found your signal quite fast, showing us the direction you were heading in. First I thought it was Éparcy, but then you drove on, further north, and I remembered the incident with Aramis and the Spanish prisoners.”

“My mum and I were already about to leave for the airport. I didn't want her to stay alone in Lupiac any more and urged her to spend the next two days in Paris with me until she leaves for Quebec the day after tomorrow. We had already booked the afternoon flight back to Paris.”

“The captain was able to organize protection with the Spanish police for both Aramis' mother and sister and half an hour after Charlène's call the personal protection was already under way. I would have stayed another day or two, but with you apparently being intent on self-destruction, I booked the first flight back. Tréville had a helicopter waiting for me and d'Artagnan at _Charles-de-Gaulle_ and organized a police escort for Madame d'Artagnan. It felt very royal, being picked up at the gate and escorted to a military helicopter.” Porthos' smile broadened. “The pup was a little green around the gills when we took off.”

“Hey,” d'Artagnan protested, but was interrupted by Tréville's chuckling and Porthos' laughing.

“Anyway, that way we were in Landrecies around 23 o'clock and half an hour later we had reached the place where you had left your car. We missed the chance to catch Grimaud and the men with him unawares, it seems they had posted guards outside with nightscopes. There was a short fight and Grimaud was able to flee, as were some of the men with him.”

“Men? There were more?” Athos asked. “I saw only two, and killed one.”

“Yeah, these two we found. One dead in a cell and another who tried to flee with Grimaud but was wounded and arrested,” said Porthos.

“The other men were neither friends nor helpmates, they belonged to a group I assume were Islamic terrorists demanding their money. We apparently interrupted them in their negotiations. Two were shot on the spot, three of them were able to flee with Grimaud. While Porthos and d'Artagnan immediately made their way towards where we hoped to find you, two units chased after the fleeing men. One of the assumed Islamic terrorists was caught and wounded badly. I hope we'll be able to interrogate him soon, though.”

“And Grimaud?” Athos asked.

“Still on the run, but there are two teams out there to search for him, and we have assistance from the army. Road blocks, border security and so on. The Belgian border is only 25 kilometres away from where Grimaud disappeared.” Tréville's mobile started ringing and he pulled it from his pocket, taking the call immediately. While listening to what the caller had to say, he strolled over to the window.

“What about Anne? Did you see her? Tréville said she is here.”

“We met her in the surgery's waiting area. She's collected. Happy you're both alive. Happy Aramis is back.” Porthos eyed Tréville, who still listened to the call without saying one word. “I hope they let her see him when he comes out from surgery. You know how they can be when you're not family.”

“I think Tréville saw to it, he spoke with the doctors earlier,” d'Artagnan said. “He can put his foot down if he wants.”

“I'll see to it, thanks.” Tréville ended the call and turned around. “They caught another man. He's severely injured and it's uncertain if he'll survive.” Tréville paused for a moment. “There's a chance Grimaud has crossed the border. I need to contact my Belgian colleagues, they won't be happy to have French military and police swarming about in their territory. I don't want to cause an international incident.” He walked to the door and turned around once again before he left. “Let's hope we catch him before he can cross another border. I'll see you later.”

After Tréville had left, they talked about the recent events a while longer until Porthos left to see if Aramis was still in surgery. D'Artagnan took his leave a few minutes later to check on his mother. He promised to come back during the day when he had had a proper meal and a nap, not necessarily in that order.

As soon as the door had closed behind d'Artagnan, Athos let his head sink back on the pillow and closed his eyes. He felt dead tired. He wanted to rest for a moment and then call one of the nurses to ask if she could get him information about Aramis' condition.

He was asleep within thirty seconds.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Aramis kept his eyes closed and listened to the sounds. Like the other two occasions when he had woken, the room around him was quiet, except for the usual noise filling an ICU room. He listened to the beeps and soft whirr of the machinery surrounding his bed. Somehow, it had a soothing effect on him. Suddenly, however, he knew he was not alone in the room, even though he heard nothing specific, not even as much as a person's breathing. It was just the unmistakable sense of danger honed over the years. And he knew it was not Anne who was here. 

When he had come around after the surgery, the first thing he had been aware of was that someone was holding his hand, stroking the back of it gently and tenderly. The sensation had been like an anchor for him in a sea of noises – _beeps, whirrs, murmur_ – and the fog in his mind. It had taken a moment to remember what had happened and where he was and why he was here. Then he had opened his eyes and looked straight into Anne's smiling face. He had seen the trails of dried tears in her face and the lines of worry around her eyes, but she had smiled at him and whispered something, and then they had kissed. It had probably been the best kiss in his life so far. Or at least damn near the mark.

Anne had stayed until Tréville had suddenly materialised beside his bed and whispered with her. He had told Aramis it was time to escort Anne back and that Aramis needed to rest. Tréville had promised to bring her by again later when Aramis was feeling better and would be more alert. It seemed, Aramis had not been the only one realising he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer.

Tréville had been beside his bed when Aramis had woken the next time. He had given him a very short summary of the recent events, and told him he should get better soon. Tréville's short monologue had included words like _'son'_ and ' _glad we found you in time_ ' and ' _I'm too old for this_ ' and Aramis had been deeply moved by the words and the warmth in his captain's voice. Tréville had also told him that Porthos had spent some time at the side of his bed until the big man's snoring had grown too loud and a nurse had put down her foot and more or less thrown him out to get sleep elsewhere.

All this came to Aramis' mind, and he knew that whoever was in the room with him now, keeping suspiciously quiet, was neither Anne nor Tréville nor a snoring Porthos.

“Haven't I suffered enough? Have you come to torture me further?” Aramis asked quietly, keeping his eyes closed. He didn't have to look to know who had come to see him.

Someone gasped, and it was the first hint Aramis had been right in his assumption that he was not alone in the room. When no reply came, he added, finally opening his eyes, “It was a joke, okay?”

Athos stared at him in consternation.

“Admittedly, it was a bad one, but it was a joke nonetheless. You saved my life, remember?”

“No, I nearly killed you,” Athos answered in a rasping voice.

“Grimaud nearly killed me. You saved me.”

“No, I didn't. Porthos and--”

“Okay,” Aramis interrupted, rolling his eyes. “Maybe it was not you in the first place, but it was at least your watch, according to what I've heard. So can we just agree that your watch saved me in place of you?” A smile slowly spread across Aramis' face.

Athos stared at his friend until his own features softened and the hint of a smirk appeared at the corners of his mouth. “I guess I can live with that.” Athos dragged his chair nearer to the bed. “Aramis, I'm sorry.” He held up his hand to stop the protest he could virtually see forming in the other's mind. “No, let me speak, just a minute. I want to apologise for my ill-prepared plan. It's hard to admit, but even I obviously do make a mistake now and then. I'll try to avoid them in the future.” Athos' voice grew more serious now. “Forgive me. I'm glad to see you on the road to recovery. The doctor says you'll have to stay in hospital for at least a week, maybe ten days. How do you feel?”

Aramis seemed to ponder the question for a moment. “I don't know. If I didn’t know better I'd say it feels like I had been abducted, tortured, shot, dragged through a snowstorm and gone down with a dose of pneumonia. Crazy, isn't it? As if that would ever happen to me!” He winked at Athos.

One of the rare, true smiles appeared on Athos' face. Aramis' _joie de vivre_ was infectious. “You are a cat with nine lives, Aramis.”

“I know.” Aramis grabbed Athos' hand and squeezed it. “Thank you. For everything.” _For keeping my family safe. For keeping Anne safe. For coming for me. For staying with me._

Athos filled Aramis in with more details from Tréville's report. When a nurse came to softly rebuke Athos for having stayed too long, Athos rose. “He's not tired and he’s only listening to my report, this is hardly too exhausting for him,” Athos told the nurse.

“I'm not speaking of him. It's you who should be in bed by now. You're post-op, hypodermic and weakened,” the nurse replied, winking at Aramis. “I said a quarter of an hour, not longer.”

Athos rolled his eyes expressively. “Porthos and d'Artagnan want to see you, too, but I'm not sure when they’ll be allowed in. There's a dragon guarding this hoard, err, room,” he stage-whispered. Then he followed the nurse out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical background, if you're interested:
> 
> The military hospital _Hôpital d'instruction des armées du Val-de-Grâce_ was built by order of Queen Anne of Austria. After the birth of her son Louis XIV after 23 childless years of marriage to Louis XIII, Anne showed her gratitude to the Virgin Mary by building a church on the land of a Benedictine convent. Louis XIV himself is said to have laid the cornerstone for the _Val-de-Grâce_ in a ceremony that took place on April 1, 1645, when he was seven years old. Later, Anne retired to the convent of Val-de-Grâce where she spent her last years and died of breast cancer on January, 20, 1666. During the French Revolution, the Benedictine nuns provided medical care for injured revolutionaries. Following the Revolution, the buildings were converted into a military hospital. Val-de-Grâce was the traditional burial place for members of the House of Orléans, cadet of the House of Bourbon.
> 
> I thought it would be just and fitting that Aramis recovers in a hospital Anne had founded and -in line with the show- his son had laid the cornerstone for, and where Anne had spent the final years of her life.


	14. Bruised And Battered (but not broken)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was entitled to watery eyes; there was still the pain from the gunshot wound when he strained his leg too much, and some of the deeper cuts that had needed stitching tugged painfully from time to time. And sometimes he coughed so hard it brought tears to his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay.
> 
> CW: Mention of terrorism, cruelty of Islamic terrorists and short, graphic description of use of violence against “heathens” as punishment, ensuing the death of prisoners. If you don't want to read anything related to Islamic terrorism, skip the part between _“Bonjour, captain, take a seat,” Porthos said._ \-- and -- _“It was definitely him, even if the quality was poor.[...] ” Athos looked around._

_Two weeks later_

Aramis was released from the hospital on the 20th, and today was the day before Christmas Eve. He had spent the last few days at home in his bed or on the couch, and the Inseparables as well as Tréville had come by each evening to report on the progress of both the Autriche case and the hunt for Grimaud. Today was the first day Aramis had felt fit enough to fully dress in the morning and spent the day with more than sleeping, watching TV and playing with Henri. He was helping Anne in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. “I'll go.”

“I hope we’re not disturbing you, but Tréville has information he wants to share with us,” Athos said as soon as Aramis had opened the door.

“He refused to tell us anything without you,” Porthos added, giving Athos a slight push to make way for them. “He ordered us to come here immediately.”

“He said he wasn't willing to repeat this over and over and how his time is _too precious_ for it,” d'Artagnan mocked, following Porthos. “It was his idea to come here unannounced.”

“I think the exact wording was 'don't get on my nerves, d'Artagnan, and exercise patience'”, Tréville said from where he sat on the couch in Aramis and Anne's living room, a cup of coffee in his hands.

“You're already here,” Athos stated, covering his surprise eloquently. “I guess we can start right away then.”

D'Artagnan grumbled something inaudibly to the others and slumped down on one of the armchairs.

“We've been waiting for you,” Aramis said and turned to Tréville with a smirk on his face. “You can start now, captain.”

“The police have dropped the proceedings against you and Anne and the state prosecutor has closed the case. He has officially brought charges for abduction, bodily injury and triple attempted murder against Grimaud in absentia. The prosecution was furthermore informed this morning by Autriche's attorneys, that Monsieur Autriche withdraws his accusations against you.”

“All accusations?” asked Aramis.

“I'm not sure about his accusations on adultery and the paternity suit, but they would be civil cases anyway and have nothing to do with the police investigations. I'm sorry.”

“ _Quelle surprise_ ,” Aramis muttered.

“There is still an International Arrest Warrant out for Grimaud, but we have no trace of him so far. He hasn't turned up anywhere, which could either mean he is dead of his injuries by now and lying somewhere undetected, or he has helpers and is lying low. But we're on to him and will find him in the end. I've talked to a friend in Mossad this morning, he might have something for me.”

Athos eyed Tréville with a mixture of surprise and admiration. “You know Mossad agents?”

Tréville only shrugged.

“What's with Marcheaux and his colleague, Garonne or Garonnet,” Porthos asked.

“Right. We've found Garronet.”

“What? But you haven't said a word! What does he say?” D'Artagnan sat up in his armchair.

“Nothing.” Tréville sighed and scratched his head. “He's dead. He was found in a car boot five days ago. It took until yesterday to identify him and the forensic pathologist says he has been dead for at least two weeks, likely longer. We assume Marcheaux killed him the day they abducted Aramis.”

“That's unfortunate. What about Marcheaux?” Athos wanted to know.

“We have a trace. He seems to be in Spain and is believed to have crossed the border at Le Perthus exactly 24 hours after Aramis was taken from police custody. We received a police report from Barcelona where he surfaced in another police investigation. We're working on it. What troubles me a little is another name that turned up in the police report. Feron. It might be coincidence, but I have a bad feeling about this. Danglard will fly to Spain tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? But it's Christmas Eve!” Anne stood in the open kitchen door, a tray of fresh coffee and pastries in her hands.

“Yes,” Tréville answered stoically, momentarily missing the context between Lieutenant Danglard and Christmas Eve and why Anne was surprised at it.

“But....,” Anne trailed off and glanced at Aramis. “You are all still coming tomorrow, right?” She looked around full of expectation.

Athos nodded.

Porthos grinned from ear to ear. “You can definitely count on me!”

D'Artagnan's head bopped up and down excitedly. “Yes, of course! Constance and I are looking forward to it!”

Tréville said nothing and finally all eyes were fixed on him. He darted a glance at Aramis before turning to Anne. “I can't give my word I'll make it for dinner, but I'll be there. No later than dessert. Promise.”

Anne smiled and finally set down the tray. “I'm so glad we'll all be able to spend Christmas together. Aramis is planning a grand dinner, he has spent the last days with nothing else than preparations for it, what to serve for the main course, the order of the courses and so on.”

Aramis beamed at them. He could feel tears in his eyes and blinked them away. He was entitled to watery eyes; there was still the pain from the gunshot wound when he strained his leg too much, and some of the deeper cuts that had needed stitching tugged painfully from time to time. And sometimes he coughed so hard it brought tears to his eyes. He could try to persuade himself this was the reason why his vision blurred and why he had to swallow twice to get rid of the knot in his throat, and not the deep gratitude he felt. His eyes met Athos' stare, and the older man inclined his head a little, a smile playing around the lips. Two weeks ago, Aramis had been convinced he would not live long enough to see this day, to ever get the chance to spend even one Christmas together with Anne and Henri. And now they all were here together. In his eyes, it was no less than a miracle, but then, that was what Christmas was all about, in the end. “I'm not fit enough this year to go to midnight mass, so we'll have all evening. It doesn't matter if you're a little late, captain. We will wait for you, no matter how late it gets.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Five days later_

Athos had discarded the sling supporting his injured shoulder that morning for good. The bullet wound had healed well and he just couldn't stand being restricted in his movements any more. He had already hissed four times in the course of the morning when a sudden movement had sent a pang through his shoulder, but he’d gritted his teeth and didn't let it show.

Aramis came by the office around midday for the first time since he had been arrested by the police more than three weeks ago. He finally felt fit enough to pick up work again and the doctor had confirmed that his double pneumonia was cured completely and no wounds showed signs of infection any more. The bruised ribs and sprained ankles had healed well and the colourful bruises his skin had been cluttered with had faded. There was only the merest hint of yellow left on some parts of his body only those who knew what had happened to him were able to detect.

“Autriche has still not filed a complaint until now, but I'm constantly expecting a court order in the mail.” Aramis sat on the couch in Athos' room, a cup of coffee in his hand and Porthos at his side.

“The hearing date for the divorce was already set, why don't he just see this through now?” D'Artagnan leaned against the window.

Aramis sighed. “Because he is convinced things have changed, that it was Anne who cheated on him and not vice versa. This would give him a better starting position for the divorce proceedings and there is still the issue with the paternity he's challenging.”

“That should be the easiest point to prove, don't you think?” Porthos asked, trying to hide the smirk.

“His lawyers haven't officially asked for a DNA sample from Henri until now.”

“Anne could do it, all she would need is DNA from her husband,” Athos suggested. “She doesn't have to wait and endure his accusations.”

“She doesn't want to have anything to do with him any more. Not even as much as asking for a DNA sample. I already suggested it,” Aramis replied. “She says if he thinks Henri is not his son, he should prove it. Impossible as it is, she would be more than happy if it were the case, then there would really be nothing linking her life to his any more once the divorce is through.”

“You’re in a dilemma at the moment, but it will sort itself out eventually. The divorce proceedings are still pending, there has to be a decision sooner or later.” Athos opened the drawer and fetched some papers. “There's something else I wanted to discuss.”

Before he could elaborate on it, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. The door opened and Tréville appeared. Startled, he paused when he saw all of them in the room. “I didn't expect to see you all gathered already,” he said, closing the door. “All the better, I have news.”

“Bonjour, captain, take a seat,” Porthos said.

There was only the chair in front of Athos' desk left, and given how crowded it was already in the small office with the four Inseparables, Tréville stayed where he was and leaned against the door behind him. “The Israeli Intelligence Service has forwarded information on Grimaud. He was identified when he entered the Republic of Yemen, coming from Saudi Arabia on December 18th, accompanied by Yussuf ben Yahya and Abu Bakr ibn Umar, both known members of a branch of al-Qaida. The trace disappeared for two days, then he resurfaced in Habarut near the Oman border in the company of one Pakistani and two Afghans also familiar to Mossad. Five days later, a video appeared on an Arabic channel on the internet, showing the beheading of five prisoners in Afghanistan. The Israelis are sure one of them is Grimaud. The other four were an Englishman, a Syrian and two Afghans.”

“So he's dead? Grimaud is dead?” d'Artagnan asked.

“It seems so,” answered Tréville.

“Is this verified information?” Athos asked. “How sure is it the man in the video is Grimaud?”

Tréville regarded Athos for a moment. “I would say 90 per cent. I saw the video. The man looks gaunt and worn out and I have only seen him on photos in this life, but I would say it's him. The Israelis are convinced it's him, they say his name is mentioned in the video as well.”

“What else does the video message say?” Porthos asked.

“That the men have to die because they betrayed the cause. That they are heathen, selfish, unworthy. It would suit to what you told us about Rochefort and Grimaud's connection to Islamic terrorists.”

“Can we see it? The video?” Aramis spoke for the first time. “As you know, I've spent some time with him and might be able to judge if it's definitely him or not.”

Tréville remained silent for a moment, then he nodded, pulling an USB stick from his pocket. “I should have deleted the file immediately after watching, Moshe trusted I would do so. This must never leave this room.” He handed the stick to Athos who inserted it into the desktop and turned the screen. All men gathered around the desk and waited until the video started.

The video was only two and a half minutes long and started with a black screen and Persian writing, running over the screen from left to right. A male voice spoke in Farsi, probably reading the text. Then there was a cut and five men could be seen kneeling in the dirt, desert stretching behind them with a mountain range visible in the far background. Left and right behind the men stood two masked men, clad in traditional _quamis_ , with machine guns in their hands. One of them had a scimitar attached to his belt. More Persian flashed at the bottom of the screen, a voice-over spoke on in quick Farsi. The camera started zooming in on each of the kneeling men.

When the face of the man in the middle filled the picture, Aramis gasped. “That's him. Grimaud. It is him.”

“Yes, it's definitely him,” Athos confirmed while the camera zoomed in on the next face.

They watched in silence how the camera zoomed out again to show all men, and the guard on the right side shouldered his machine gun and unsheathed the scimitar. Obviously meant as a sick act of kindness, the man on the left pulled dirty sacks over the men's heads to blindfold them. When he had finished, he resumed his position beside the prisoners while the other man stepped sideways. The picture flickered and froze for a second, then they watched how the man raised his arm. Before the scimitar came down to decapitate the first prisoner, d'Artagnan turned away and stared out of the window.

Tréville put his hand on the young man's shoulder, his eyes still fixed on the screen, even though he had watched the scene already twice before.

The man with the scimitar worked fast and efficiently, it was obvious it was not the first time he’d carried out such a task. Thankfully the camera stayed zoomed on the level of the heads hidden behind the coarse sackcloth until the last man had been beheaded, and didn't show them the chopped off heads rolling in the dirt. The screen went black after the last prisoner had lost his life. Either there hadn't been any more insurgent speeches after the beheading or the Israeli Intelligence Service had cut the video here. In any case, the Inseparables had seen enough.

“It was definitely him, even if the quality was poor. Grimaud is dead.” Athos looked around.

D'Artagnan walked back to the window before facing the others. “Grimaud was a bad man, but that's something no man deserves.”

“No, certainly not,” Aramis said quietly. “Nevertheless, I'm glad we don't have to worry about him anymore.”

The men remained silent for a minute, then Tréville asked Athos to destroy the video. “I need to go back, I have to join the coordination for the New Year's Eve festivities on the Champs-Élysées.“

“My heartfelt sympathy,” Athos muttered, pulling out the stick from his computer.

“Do you have news from Marcheaux? Is he still in Spain?” Aramis asked before Tréville had reached the door.

“No, there's nothing new, but we think he is still in Spain. The Spanish police are on him, they will let us know as soon as he shows up anywhere. I don't think your family is in danger, Aramis. Grimaud is dead and we don't know if Marcheaux even knows anything of your family there. But there is still increased surveillance in progress for your sister and your mother and the police is searching intensely for Grimaud's Spanish helpers.”

“And Feron?” Porthos looked at Tréville expectantly.

“They are on to him, too. I think sooner or later Marcheaux will appear in his vicinity. Danglard is working on the case, he will fly to Spain after New Year's day again. I hope we'll soon have results. See you.”

Tréville left and the others returned to their offices, too.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_31st December, 9:00 am_

They were ushered to the commissioner's office by a sour-looking Lieutenant Danglard. He was still suspicious of the four private investigators or whatever they called themselves; to the police departments in Greater Paris they were known as _les Inseparables_ and he still hadn't found out what it was that connected his boss with those four. Danglard certainly didn't agree in the least with their meddling in things that were purely police issues and he felt it a disorderly behaviour to call his boss simply _Captain_ , instead of _Chief Inspector_. He didn't understand either why his superior let this behaviour pass without comment. “Chief Inspector Peyrer will be with you in a few minutes. Wait here!”

Porthos' mouth already formed the word 'who', holding back the question at the very last moment. He'd been on the verge of asking the good lieutenant whom he was talking of, when it dawned on him that in this life Tréville's name was Jean Peyrer and none of his subordinates called him Captain Tréville. A fact the big man too easily forgot.

“Thank you,” Athos muttered, his good breeding so deeply internalized things like a sulky police officer didn't stop him from being polite.

“Thank you for coming,” Tréville said when he rushed into his office five minutes later. “I'm snowed under with work. Actually, I should already be in a meeting at the Ministry of the Interior.” He glanced at the clock on the wall opposite him while seating himself behind the desk. “I can spare fifteen minutes, at the most.”

“That suits us fine. Aramis is lagging behind with his New Year's Eve planning, so he's short of time, too,” Athos replied wryly.

Aramis launched a dig in Athos' rips.

“This morning, I was informed of the fact that Monsieur Autriche died early this morning at 5.47 o'clock at the Hôpital Saint-Louis.” Tréville glanced at the Musketeers and felt a childish, inner satisfaction for having been able to take them entirely by surprise.

“What?” Aramis uttered disbelievingly.

“How?” Athos asked. “What happened?”

“Monsieur Autriche spent the evening in a restaurant near Place Pigalle in female company. Around ten in the evening, when they had just been served the main course, Monsieur Autriche complained about feeling unwell. His companion apparently asked whether they should leave, which Monsieur Autriche denied. After a few minutes his condition deteriorated dramatically, he had problems drawing breath and complained about pain in his left shoulder. His companion asked for help from the waiters, two of which immediately assisted lying Monsieur Autriche down on the floor, the maître d'hôtel already calling for an ambulance. Monsieur Autriche obviously had a coronary and his heart stopped. The lady in his company immediately started CPR until the ambulance arrived seven minutes later. Monsieur Autriche was taken to the Hôpital Saint-Louis where he was revived twice before he passed away at 5.47 o'clock. Cause of death: cardiac failure.”

There was a moment of silence where the Inseparables processed what they'd just heard.

Tréville shuffled a little more with the papers on his desk and finally looked up again. “The woman in Monsieur Autriche's company, dining with him yesterday evening was one,” the captain pulled one of the papers a wee bit more towards him, reading from the sheet when he spoke on, “Madame, or I should rather say Milady, Anne de Winter.”

D'Artagnan and Aramis gasped simultaneously while Porthos grunted something intelligible. Athos raised an eyebrow, but his mask of indifference cracked. “You're not serious.”

Tréville nodded. “Lieutenant Denaux questioned her, her testimony was confirmed by the two waiters and other witnesses. She apparently looked quite shaken.”

“She has always been a good actress. I doubt she would look visibly shaken by such an incident,” Athos stated.

“Do you think I should ask the responsible commissioner if he has checked the wine and food they ate at the restaurant? Should I ask him to order an autopsy?”

“The wine and food had certainly been thrown away and the dishes done before Monsieur Autriche died at the hospital, so that would be a cold lead anyway,” Porthos argued after a moment of contemplation.

Tréville's gaze switched from Porthos back to Athos. “And an autopsy? Should I suggest it?”

Athos mulled over it for a moment. “I don't think a pathologist would find something usable. If there really was something like, let's say poison, I guess it would be gone by now. Untraceable.” He hesitated. “But I'm no expert in this field of science, nor am I a police officer responsible for such decisions.”

Tréville squinted at Athos before he nodded. “I guess you're right.” His gaze switched to Aramis. “We should be grateful for what we have. May he rest in peace.”

Aramis still looked shaken, though when what he had just heard started to settle, he felt an incredible relief flood his body. It was a sad affair and Henri had just lost his biological father, but it would mean he and Anne and Henri could finally live in peace together. “The police won't try to frame me for this, too, will they?”

Tréville shook his head. “No. The investigation is already closed. The death certificate distinctly reads natural cause of death, cardiac failure. This happens all the time. And he died in a hospital surrounded by doctors who noticed nothing out of the ordinary. No one knows of the link between you and Milady. No one besides the five of us here knows that she uses a false name and passport. The case is closed for good.”

Athos rose and mumbled something about having to make an urgent call and “See you later at the office.” Then he was out of the door.

D'Artagnan looked after him with a frown on his face.

Porthos slid his chair a little closer to the desk. “So, this means Aramis is finally off the hook in every regard, right? Among us, do you think she killed him and if so, why and how?”

“To answer your questions, Porthos: Yes, I think Aramis and Anne won't have to fear any civil lawsuits any more, at least not from her late husband. The Autriche case is history. And yes, I think Milady killed Monsieur Autriche, though I don't know how. There will likely never be a way to prove this, which, for once, I don't care about. As for the reasons why: I have no idea. She certainly did Anne and Aramis a favour with it, but handing out favours it so unlike her I doubt this was her motivation. Maybe bad habits? Maybe she knew Autriche from another life? She killed more than once in the old days, as you know.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Athos pulled his mobile from the trouser pocket as soon as he had left the police building. Turning right onto rue de la Montagne-Sainte-Geneviève, he opened his contacts and searched for the entry he had labelled with M. M for Milady. He had found the paper a week ago, slipped under his door one morning with no name or message on it, just a mobile number. Even without recognizing the handwriting he had known whose number it was. He had filed it and never been tempted to call it ever since. 

Now he hit the dial button and listened to the dial-up while walking away from the police commissariat.

“Athos, how nice to finally hear from you.”

“Did you kill him?”

There was a short, pregnant pause. “You really need to work on your small talk.”

“Anne, it's a simple question. I‘ve just left Tréville's office.”

“I don't really know whom you're talking about.”

Athos breathed audibly. _How many more were there? Was Autriche not the only corpse in his ex-wife's wake?_ “I'm speaking of Monsieur Autriche.”

“Oh.” There was another short pause. “A belated Christmas present for Aramis. Despite what you may think, I always liked him.”

_Who didn't?_ “Anne,” he muttered, trailing off. _What now? Thank you? Does it never stop? Why?_ “I need to see you. Can we meet?”

“Are you asking me out? Is this a date?”

Now it was Athos who fell quiet.

No!

(Yes...)

_I don't know...._

“Maybe,” he muttered. He needed to sort his thoughts and feelings. Quickly.....

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

New Year's Eve they all spent together again at Aramis and Anne's place, though with the news of Monsieur Autriche's death the mood was calmer than originally planned. Recalling the year's ups and downs and the providential coincidence that had brought them all together, they not only drank to the coming year, but to the enemies they had defeated and to their friendship, brotherhood and love that had stood the test of time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you wondered, this is not the last chapter, there'll be one more. ;-)


	15. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sadly, we've reached the end of this story and I want to say a big THANK YOU to everyone for reading, commenting, subscribing and leaving kudos. The feedback I get is always inspiration for more.

_Commissariat central du 5ème, Paris, January, 4th_

“The Spanish police have detained Marcheaux yesterday evening while executing a search warrant. France has an extradition treaty with Spain, so I hope it will only be a few more days until Marcheaux is returned to Paris. Unfortunately, it seems Philippe Feron has disappeared, but he wasn't our business anyway. I still don't know why exactly he is wanted by the Spanish police at all.”

“Will we be able to interrogate him?” Aramis asked. He needed to know how many more of Grimaud's helpers were in Spain, being set on his family.

Tréville's pointed stare answered that question thoroughly.

“I'm merely concerned for my family,” Aramis muttered.

“I know. Rest assured we'll extract every scrap of information we need from Marcheaux. Let the police do their work.”

“He's still a police officer. I hope there won't be any acts based on a misinterpreted code of honour. Statements and evidence can easily disappear, as can prisoners. After all, he's not only still a member of the police force, but also an officer who killed a fellow member,” Athos said, eyeing his former commanding officer.

Pondering what the other man had said, Tréville stared at Athos thoughtfully until a smirk appeared on the captain's face. “Maybe you're right. The mills of bureaucracy grind slowly, especially if it takes a while for our department to file the petition. That way, it might very well take a few weeks until the extradition order is through. In the meantime, I might obtain a permission to interrogate Marcheaux while he is still in Spain. As it is, the collaboration with the police authority in Barcelona went very well, the responsible commander is a very reasonable man.” Tréville looked at his men the way he used to do when he had given a command, ordered by the king or Richelieu, and which he had subtly undermined simply by the way he had made eye contact with his Musketeers. Without words, they had known what was expected of them. “I might need a translator, though, my Spanish is not good enough to communicate with the Spanish police on site. Would you be willing to accompany me and serve as interpreter, Aramis?”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_La Bicyclette, Paris, January, 5th_

“How much longer are you planning to ignore me, Porthos?”

Porthos nearly choked on the slug of beer in his mouth and turned to look at the person who had addressed him.

Elodie stood beside his stool, one hand on her hip, the other holding a glass of wine she put on the counter now.

“Elodie,” Porthos finally stuttered, and fell silent again.

“Well, at least that's cleared up then. You remember me. I thought the reason why you've been following me for weeks is because you would finally ask me out or something. Instead you just stared at me, disappearing abruptly and all in all making a fool of yourself, thinking I wouldn't notice you.”

“Umh....”

“I know you've been watching me at least since mid-November. The only reason why I've never addressed you is that I think you owe me something, at least an opening gambit. Riding off to war after practically proposing to me and then never coming back is something not many women would condone easily, but I was willing, I still am. It wasn't your fault, after all, not entirely. Nevertheless, making it easy for you was never an option, either. I suffered, too, and I ran after you once before already. So, I waited. A bunch of flowers, an invitation for coffee or dinner would have been nice. But all you ever did was watch me from the café on the other side or every second Thursday or so from here at the bar, waiting for my colleagues to get drunk, and when it's time for me to go home, you let me leave alone. Why are you here then? I'm running out of patience and it's not like there aren't men asking me out for a date.”

“Elodie,” Porthos tried once more, finally getting over the shock. “I didn't know if, erm. What if you didn't----. Umh... I thought--”

“Oh, Porthos, you have no idea.”

Porthos gathered all his courage and leaned forward. Instead of making even more a fool of himself with more stuttering, he sealed her lips with a kiss. When she made no move to withdraw, he brought up his hands, cupping the back of her head and pulling her closer. He deepened the kiss and Elodie's mouth opened to welcome his cheeky tongue. Somewhere from afar he heard a whoop whoop from Elodie's male colleagues, but he couldn't care less about them at the moment.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_LaFère Security, Paris, January, 8th_

Athos was filling his mug with freshly brewed coffee when he heard the doorbell. He frowned and sifted through his memory wondering if a client meeting was pending that he had forgotten about, but nothing came to his mind. Maybe it was just the parcel service who was earlier than usual.

The office door opened a moment later and in strolled Richelieu, smug and arrogant as ever. “Ah,” he said, as soon as he spotted Athos in the kitchen door. “You're just the man I was looking for. I have a task for you.”

Athos was speechless for only a fraction of time. Recovering quickly from the moment of surprise, he took a shot at it and countered. “Richelieu, what in God's name do you want?” The British actor didn't even bat an eye on hearing his former name and Athos found his guess confirmed that the older man knew about his former life. Athos walked to the reception area.

“Louis needs personal protection. A threat has arisen and the Parisian police are not capable of guaranteeing his safety. They say as long as there's no tangible incident they can't offer him personal protection. Not beyond the usual he's entitled to when on official visit. Louis is not willing to --”

“Stop,” Athos interrupted Richelieu's flow of speech. “You are wasting your breath. We are not interested in a job for Louis. If you want, I can give you a list of security firms specialising in personal protection.”

Richelieu glowered at Athos. “I don't need a list. I'm here to engage you. Louis and his brother have been at war with an illegitimate brother for a long time. His demands are going sky high by now, it's ridiculous. Now he has started to threaten them, and family members as well.”

“Louis' family affairs are none of our business,” Porthos said. He had heard the men talk and came out of his office, having overheard the last sentences of the conversation. He didn't let show his surprise upon seeing Richelieu. “How comes you work for Louis, anyway? Aren't you busy with shooting a series?”

Richelieu slowly turned towards Porthos. “I don't know why you think this is of your concern, but if it makes you happy: I'm on engagement here in Paris and since Louis parted with his personal adviser two month ago, I'm more than happy to help out. We've always worked wonderfully together. There, satisfied?”

Just then, Aramis' door opened. 

Aramis had worked on a report and paid no heed to the muffled voices from the reception area. At least until the moment he had decided to get himself a coffee and hear what the discussion outside was about, and had opened the door. He stared at the former Cardinal. Seeing Richelieu here in the office was unreal and he needed a moment to pull himself together again.

The men's heads had turned to Aramis' office the moment the door had opened. Now Richelieu squinted at Aramis, pointing a finger at the former marksman. “Wasn't it you who hit me last summer at the convention here in Paris? I'm sure it was you! I know what makes you tick.”

Athos shared a quick glance with Porthos and moved closer to Aramis.

“Why would I do so?” replied Aramis. “What reason could I possibly have to beat you?” Aramis' voice gushed with sarcasm.

Suddenly, Porthos could see a hatred flickering in his friend's eyes that made him shiver. He also moved closer. “Aramis,” he warned in a low voice.

“You should go now,” Athos said, directed at Richelieu. “We can't help you.”

“You have the nerve to come here and ask for help?” Aramis voice picked up volume and he took another step towards Richelieu. “You dare to face me as if nothing has happened? Do you think you are invulnerable or do you just have fun mocking me?”

Both men stared at each other, and it was for the first time in their lives that they ranked on the same level.

Athos feared the worst and his hand automatically reached for the rapier which hadn't been attached to his belt any more for over 350 years. Only very seldom did he forget about that fact.

The door opened and d'Artagnan and Constance entered the office, the young man immediately jerking to a halt when he took in the scene in the reception area. Constance, unaware of the relationship that linked the men, shot a glance at d'Artagnan and walked on to shrug out of her coat and boot up her computer. Charlène, who had sat behind the desk until now and tried to ignore the men, rose and gave her niece a sign to follow her to the kitchen.

“What are you doing here?” d'Artagnan said.

Richelieu turned around, throwing his hand into the air dramatically. “Oh please, can we all just stop being oh so surprised and come back to business? There's a job that needs to be done.”

“Ask Tréville. We are not the King's men anymore. If Louis needs protection he should turn to the police for help or engage a private firm. Not us,” Athos added. He grabbed Aramis' arm to be able to keep him back bodily if need be.

“I already talked to Tréville, he sent me to you. You are still Musketeers, you have an obligation.”

“Oh no, we haven't,” Porthos growled. “Is that what Tréville said?”

“Look, before the mood gets even more aggressive, let's forget all personal resentments for a moment and let me explain why I'm here. It concerns you, too.”

Aramis crossed his arms in front of him, signalling his brothers that he would keep quiet for the time being if they wished to listen to Richelieu.

Porthos nodded.

“Go on then,” Athos said. “You have two minutes.”

“Like I said, Louis' illegitimate brother has started to threaten the family with violence. Louis is in fear for his and his family's life and needs personal protection. Meanwhile he knows what Gaston is capable of. And if I say Gaston, I speak of the former _duc d'Orleans_ , Gaston de Bourbon. A quirk of fate has united those two again, and in a similar constellation as in their former lives. Gaston still seems to be unhappy about being the family's mongrel again. Well, it can't be helped.” Richelieu shrugged. “Louis is convinced Gaston remembers their old lives, and the old resentments will only fuel Gaston's ire. His majesty didn't part on the best of terms with Gaston, so far as I know.”

“To my knowledge, Louis died having him pardoned. Gaston can hardly complain about the happenings after Louis' death. He tried to claim the throne, and not for the first time,” Athos replied.

“Yes, but that won't stop Gaston from being furious with him. He was banished and imprisoned, and their relationship hasn't improved in this life either. As regards the Queen.....” Richelieu trailed off, turning to Aramis. “Louis told me you're with her nowadays.”

Aramis needed every ounce of willpower to not punch Richelieu square in the face again. He didn't know how much longer he would be able to bear with this man standing in front of him. He felt Porthos' hand on his shoulder.

“What's it to you?” Porthos asked in Aramis' stead.

“You might not know, but from reliable sources we are informed that the queen regent assumed the contract Tréville had established with Milady de Winter as agent for the crown. The queen regent ordered the death of Gaston by the hand of Milady. That, in my opinion, puts both ladies on top of Gaston's list of most hated people, besides Louis and his brother. If I'd be him and would remember, I would probably seek revenge. If I were you, I would keep a good eye on Anne of Austria.”

That hit home. Aramis blanched.

Richelieu turned to Athos. “I'm sure you don't nourish equal feelings towards your ex-wife, so your motives wouldn't be the same as Aramis'. I think she already knows Gaston is after her anyway, she can most likely look after herself.”

Athos looked at d'Artagnan. It seemed it was really time for them to dip into the past, painful as it might be, and dig for all relevant information concerning everyone close to them. Too much seemed to have happened after their deaths on the battlefield of Rocroi; important things they didn't know yet.

“You may not be willing to protect Louis, but I'm sure you will certainly want to protect the ladies from Gaston's wrath. You would have to do the job of finding Gaston and eliminating the danger he poses anyway, one way or the other, and Louis will pay for it. Think about it. If you protect Louis and go after Gaston, it would contribute to also saving Anne of Austria and Milady de Winter from being Gaston's next targets. Just think about that.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

القائم, _al-Qa'im, Iraq, February, 4th_

 _“In schā'a llāh_ ,“ the man said, finishing his report.

“ _In schā'a llāh,“_ the men, gathered around their leader in the hot tent, repeated and, “ _Allāhu akbar!”_

“Now,” the tall, dark-skinned Arab said in broken French, turning to their guest. “What is the help you can offer us? I hope I was not misled. I hope I have not to regret saving you.” He scratched his dark beard, eyeing the heathen who sat opposite him, clad in a traditional _quamis_. It had not been easy to prepare the video message in a way that not even the much-hated Mossad or CIA agents would see that it had been manipulated. It had cost him more than a handful dollars and he was determined to let the heathen compensate for it.

 _“Alhamdulillah-hillathii ah-yana ba'da ma ama tana wa ilayhi nuschuur,”_ Grimaud replied, and he could see in the men's eyes the surprise that he had learned their language so quickly. Even if his pronunciation was not perfect, his words in their mother tongue had not missed its goal. In French, he said, “You will see that I can give you access to the Parisian underworld where you'll find every support you wish for. You name your target and I'll make it possible.”

“Even the Élysée Palace?”

Grimaud grinned wickedly. “Even that. You have no idea what I can make possible. Give me money and weapons, and I promise you we'll wreak havoc in the heart of France. Paris will descend into chaos.” 

And along with it, he would see the odious Musketeers and everyone close to them go down as well, but that was nothing his new employers needed to know. 

“I'll make you pay,” he muttered, thinking of all the torture and pain and privations he had had to suffer because of them. His hate knew no limit. He would teach them the meaning of pain....

 

_tbc_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't speak Arabic and I hope the phrases I used are not wrong (if so, please let me know so that I can correct them). If I'm not mistaken (and what I learned from the internet) the translations should read as follows:
> 
>  _In schā'a llāh_ : God willing  
>  _Allāhu akbar_ : God is great  
>  _Alhamdulillah-hillathii ah-yana ba'da ma ama tana wa ilayhi nuschuur_ : Great thanks be to the Lord who has given us life after he sent us death, and that our final return (on the day of Qiyaamah - the end of the world) will lead us to Him  
> 


End file.
